Unfinished
by remedy25
Summary: We were friends until two years ago, when he left. I moved on until he moved back. Now, we just might be able to be friends again-or I'm just fooling myself. Oh, and also, that guy I just assaulted in the coffee shop? Apparently he's my new boss...
1. The Work in Progress

Hi everyone! *waves enthusiastically* This is my first story, so forgive the imperfections and occasional grammatical error. Hopefully, this makes you smile (and maybe cry later on) and you stick with it. It's really about growing up and moving on for yourself, even if it hurts like a motherfucker (wine, ice cream, and great girlfriends help). I will send you my eternal gratitude and maybe a cute kitten if you leave a review (my apologies to PETA). I'd love to know what you think (even if it's for the kitten)! :D

The Work in Progress

Bella

Sometimes I seriously question how we've survived as a species. The few biology classes I was forced to take in high school and college informed me how and why we're here, yet I fail to see how natural selection didn't siphon out the creeps, losers, and dysfunctional cynics who think they're being clever when they roll their eyes at couples and say, "Honeymoon stage, amirite?"

No, you are wrong on so many levels. Now go away.

There is no shortage of articles, celebrities, media, and drunk strangers (re: college) that describe (sometimes with gifs) how horrible dating is. It's an emotional minefield that usually leaves you with casualties and more questions than answers. But as cynical as I am, as much as I know how bad it can all get, I will come crawling back every time. Even if I don't crave emotional intimacy as much as I should, the unintentional celibacy sucks.

Which is exactly why I am currently sitting across from Alec, the 32 year old lawyer (Washington D.C.: We produce lawyers like Whole Foods produces overpriced goods) who has either just come from the Sahara Desert or has a very serious glandular issue. It's been awhile since I've gone on a date, but I'm pretty sure trying to see if I can check my reflection off of the accumulated sweat on his forehead is not proper date etiquette.

Unlike this dress, which I had to squeeze myself in, because apparently first impressions can make or break a date. Well, fuck you, antiquated dating advice. I should have just shown up in a tight sweater and jeans.

"So you work for an environmental law firm?" I ask politely, trying to move the date along, although it's starting to feel more like a hostage situation.

He doesn't even glance up from his menu, but manages to mutter, "Yes."

I clearly lucked out in the conversational skills department tonight.

"How do you like it?" I try again, hoping I'll get more than a word this time.

"It's alright," he replies, seemingly distracted by something on the menu. I'm wearing a push-up bra that's advertised as "dangerously erotic" and you're scanning over the appetizers? I really know how to pick them.

"So are you going to tell me I should stop using my hair dryer or the penguins will all be extinct in the next five years?" I joke, hoping to elicit a nonverbal reaction. He finally makes eye contact, his gaze slightly unfocused, but doesn't display any visible emotion.

I stifle a slight shudder, wondering if I was looking into the eyes of a serial killer who I had accidentally triggered.

He finally breaks eye contact and just mutters, "Fuck those flightless bastards."

I shit you not. He actually said those words. Those words came out of a (supposedly) highly educated man's mouth.

Time for plan B. I pull out my phone and pretend to take a call. "Hi, yes this is she," I greet brightly, hoping I look a lot more convincing than I sound. "Oh, of course. I'm so sorry-I'll be back as soon as possible." The phone slides from my palm into my grip.

I don't even attempt to look like I'm ending the call because he's still trying to find all of life's secrets in the fucking menu.

"My cat is throwing up, and it looks like I have to go back to find his medication," I state, barely managing an apologetic tone. Using my imaginary cat as a excuse to get out of date-I really hope this isn't a sign. "This was...interesting. I'll see you around."

Alec glances at me skeptically, mixed with traces of what looks to be disgust (?), before uttering, "You have a cat? Aren't those just assholes in animal form?"

I mentally debate whether it'd be worth it to slap a lawyer in broad daylight but decide I couldn't afford to be sued (or hold myself back from "accidentally" stabbing him with that fork near his hand), so I just manage a shaky smile and say, "Goodbye, Alec."

Good riddance.

I'm going to spare you the typical twenty something female rant that usually consists of these major points:

Being single sucks.

Dating also sucks.

Why must it suck when I am a smart, good-looking, relatively accomplished adult who's not an asshole?

All I need is alcohol.

Here's the truth: I know I don't need a man, but I'd like one. It's like when you're at a restaurant and you're so full you know you can't eat anything, but then you see the creme brûlée or a giant lava cake (my personal weakness). As a sensible adult who can barely stand and looks three months pregnant, you know you shouldn't have it. It's clearly a bad idea. But do you order it anyway and stuff as much of it inside you as possible?

Abso-fucking-lutely. Sidenote: If you're feeling generous, you can also share said dessert with a friend, although you might want to check with the dessert and get consent first.

Being on the precipice of 30, it's becoming harder and harder to distinguish what I think I want and what I think I need. The expectation is no longer a boyfriend or a man-it's a husband. And given my recent luck with dating, I'm pretty sure my hymen will grow back sooner than I find a partner to spend the rest of my life with.

The uber stops and I quickly walk into the bar where my best friend/confidante/partner in crime Rosalie sits, chatting up the bartender. She raises her eyebrows when she sees me. "That bad?" She asks, knowing just from my aura that it was horrific.

Just kidding-pretty sure the text I sent in the uber: "I want a cave full of fluffy cats. And wine. Maybe tequila. But mostly the cave and the cats thing" tipped her off.

"He was...abnormally sweaty. And I thought maybe he had just come from a run or Crossfit, but he was wearing a suit. A boxy suit that made him look like a kid dressed as a grownup," I complain.

Rosalie blinks, absorbing all of the horrific details, steeling herself for what will be a half hour dedicated to picking apart every excruciating moment until I've purged it from my memory.

"Was he nice at least?" She asks hesitantly, trying to find a redeemable moment in a dinner of bullshit.

I shake my head as I rub my temples, my obvious nervous habit. "At one point he said to fuck the penguins, those flightless bastards, and that cats are animal forms of assholes-the type of people, not the literal-"

"I get it," she interrupts, carefully slanting a glance at the nachos that arrives in front of her.

"I don't-but it-just, why?" I groan. "Why is it that every guy I meet up with inevitably pisses me off or forces me to re-evaluate my stance on lobotomy?"

Rosalie laughs, and though I try not to resent that she is happily dating her boyfriend of three years, it's hard in these moments not to hate her a little bit.

"Listen," she says, after inhaling three nachos. "I'm not going to tell you how to date but you've been here for six years now. You can probably walk into a bar in a decent area and just start talking to someone you think is cute. Why waste time on Tinder or OkCupid or LoveMatch?"

I roll my eyes. Typical. "First of all, there is no such thing as LoveMatch, mostly because it sounds like an 80s adult version of the Guess Who game," I correct. "And secondly, I have tried almost every possible setting in which a possible love match might happen-bars, clubs, speakeasies, cute bookstores around the corner, cafes that are trying hard to appear Parisian and unironically failing, the Lincoln memorial, and the express lane at my grocery store."

I point at her. "Never have I struck dateable dick."

She giggles at my refreshing wit-never mind the two empty wine glasses beside her-before sitting back, appraising me. "You might have better luck if you broke your third rule."

Ah, yes. My rules. There's a set of general rules that everyone tries to follow in order to not hurt anyone or be hurt by anyone through dating, but then there are specific rules that we actually follow. My three were:

1) Tell someone up front if you're not interested in either a casual hookup or a relationship.

2) Treat others with dignity and respect, unless they act like a complete waste of space (if that's the case, then bury the body and run)

3) Never, ever date anyone who works on the Hill.

It was only by breaking each of these rules that they became part of an automatic checklist I run through every time I'm out on a date. There's been a few times when I had to tell the guy I wasn't interested, a handful of times that I slept with them but wasn't interested in looking for anything more, and only one time that I've attempted to form any meaningful connection to a Hill staffer.

Needless to say, that last one still gives me pause sometimes.

"Never," I assert, before deciding to fuck it all and order a Long Island Iced Tea. Deadly? Probably, especially because I hadn't ordered anything at that restaurant. Necessary?

Um, have you not heard about my date first-hand? At this point, chugging a bottle of Fireball doesn't seem like an overreaction.

"Hmmm," Rosalie muses. "Well, why don't we just throw a dinner party or something, invite a bunch of people that we barely know and see if there's any good prospects?"

I glare at her. "You want to essentially round everyone up like cows and see if I find one that I like? Seriously?"

She rolls her eyes, used to my dramatic and more than off color descriptions by now. "Yes, they'll all show up in chains and demonstrate their skills for your benefit. No, you idiot, this is the friend of a friend of a friend scenario here. But I like the cow thing-that's pretty cute," she laughs dazedly.

Annnnd that's when I know she's tipsy.

I roll my eyes before craning my neck to see what's taking the bartender so long. "I'm going to go see what's up with my drink," I say, eyeing Rosalie a bit cautiously, alarm slightly raising when she just smiles all zen-like at me.

If she's on something, I will end our friendship if she doesn't share.

The bartender, noticing my appearance, apologizes for the wait and starts to make the drink. I uncomfortably adjust my dress, knowing that any attempt to pull the mid-thigh fabric down will just inflate my breasts even more, squeezed together by what I assume is an 18th century deathtrap that's cutting off my circulation as I ramble-

"Well, well, well. It's been a long time."

I freeze, and suddenly everything except the deafening beat of my pulse fades into white noise. I even pinch myself not-so-subtly to escape from what can only be a nightmare. I feel him move toward me before I see him, and clench my jaw before finally turning to face him.

He looks the same, just a bit more tired. Blonde hair neatly cropped with a few strands in disarray (I try not to think about the possibility of female hands responsible) with bright blue eyes still as sharp and observant as ever, radiating an openness and deceitful honesty that con men would gladly give a limb to have.

What the fuck is he doing here? Didn't he leave to manage Carpenter's campaign?

"Wow-hi," I exclaim, wondering if my breathlessness can be masked by the blaring sounds of Florence and the Machine. "I thought you were in Indiana? Did you just get back in town?" I've already lost my cool girl advantage, having asked the two questions I wanted answers to the most, and therefore the two questions I definitely shouldn't have asked.

I don't care how he's doing anymore. He is not your problem.

He cracks a smile, no doubt aware of my unease. The Long Island Iced Tea chooses to materialize in that moment, and although he raises an eyebrow, he simply replies, "Yeah, I decided I missed being in the center of it all here. So when they offered me a legislative director position on McClansky's staff, I packed up and moved back. It's been about a week."

One week. Seven days. 168 hours.

"That's quite a transition," I say lamely, wishing to god I could just end this conversation and start wiping it from my memory as soon as possible. My fingers tap insistently against my glass. "Um, I actually have to meet with a friend-"

"Rosalie, right?" He interrupts, a knowing stare on his face. "I thought I saw her on the way here." Of course he knows Rosalie; they were practically BFFs before he left.

"Yeah, sorry," I say, hopefully not sounding sorry at all.

Don't say it. Don't say it. Just tell him you have to go. But dear god don't-

"It was great running into you," I say robotically, and immediately picture a version of myself falling to my knees and yelling, "NOOOOOO!"

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You too-I'll see you around."

I nod with my smile frozen to my features before brushing past him, taking care to not actually touch him, and downing the not-really-tea drink in my hand.

"Holy shit," I exclaim. "Holy fucking shit."

In case it's still not clear-that was Jasper, and he is precisely why rule number 3 exists.


	2. The Not so Bad Guy

Hey guys! So just to clear up any confusion from the last chapter-this is most definitely an E/B story, but I thought it would be interesting to explore a more complex dynamic between Jasper and Bella, which will be elaborated upon in the next few chapters. And yes, our lovely hero Edward will be making an appearance very, very soon ;)

The Not so Bad Guy

Jasper

Do you know how sometimes it feels like there's a million fucking things on your to-do list, but then you take a step back, breathe, and forget about it?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I had always thought that being successful meant that you were constantly busy, and there was always something that needed your attention. Not only were you the one responsible for putting out the fire, you were the only one who had the fucking extinguisher in the first place. The combination of natural ambition and the need to prove myself pushed me through college and grad school, and with a little luck and some convenient connections, I was able to achieve what I had wanted for so long: being the coveted manager of a presidential campaign.

How was I supposed to know the guy turned out to be a serial adulterer with an Asian schoolgirl fetish?

Weird, yes, but not a complete deal breaker. This is politics, after all, and powerful people get off in weird ways. No, it wasn't the countless number of mistresses he left in his wake throughout the campaign trail, but rather the embezzlement of campaign funds that led to his undoing.

When the FBI came sniffing around, I was left with two options: pretend I knew nothing and risk possible accusations of accomplice and fraud, or turn in everything I knew and get the hell out of Dodge (or Gary, Indiana).

You don't need a Master's degree from Harvard to figure that out.

Luckily for me, the whole thing was kept very quiet, and I managed to escape relatively unscathed (being the stepson of the Director of the FBI didn't hurt either). Being a disappointment to my family was par for the course, and aside from a few (fake) tears from my mother and a hefty sigh from my stepfather, I was able to work with the remaining bridges left intact and secure an LD position.

You may hate me a bit right now, and assume I'm another spoiled yuppie who leveraged existing privilege to get what he wants.

You're only partially right.

There is another reason I left D.C., aside from youthful ambition and entitlement. And I'm looking right at her.

Hours later, I walk into one of my favorite bars in the city with the hope of decompressing. It's a Friday night, but none of my single friends are out, and I doubt I'll be good company anyway. I walk to the bar, thinking a whiskey on the rocks would probably hit the spot, and-

Wait. I know I've seen that tattoo before. The one of the Cheshire cat grinning like a creepy fucker, leading to late night debates over the hallucinogenic influences of Alice in Wonderland.

Oh, shit. I quickly run through my options again, ignoring the last time we had spoken, and how well it had gone. This bar isn't that small, but there's still a good chance I'll run into her (mostly because you're two feet away from her dumbass). I'd rather talk to her sooner (i.e. sober) than later (i.e. when I was shitfaced). So here goes nothing.

"Well, well, well. It's been a long time." I wince a little, noticing I sound more like the Big Bad Wolf rather than a Nice Guy. You know, the one who opens doors for women but makes sure they know he's still a feminist? The one who holds your hand during a movie when he notices you discreetly wiping your tears but he's actually thinking about where the nearest bar is? The one who tells you looks great and is really wondering what you're wearing underneath that hideous dress.

This might not be the best time to say that while I'm not a Nice Guy, I'm definitely not the Bad Boy either. If anything my previous experience has taught me to be as upfront as possible, even at the risk of sounding like an uncaring asshole, because if I know one thing about women-it's that they read into everything.

For example:

"Did you have a meeting this morning? I just wanted to make sure you saw my text." Translation: Why didn't you text me back immediately and why was it a two word response? Are you pissed at me?

"I just think we should do something special for Valentine's Day." Translation: There better be fucking roses when I wake up in the morning, followed by a chef-level breakfast and a day's worth of activities.

"So who were you talking to on the phone just now?" Translation: If it's that red-headed bitch from your office, I will blow my shit.

On a certain level I get it. Men and women are programmed differently (that's just science) and society reinforces that divide. You don't mean to come across as crazy and insecure and then blame us. But we don't mean to come across as hurtful and confusing and emotionally unavailable as you seem to think we do.

If anything, you're probably giving us way too much credit. Men typically think about four things: career, loved ones, current events and sex. And if you're Tom Brady's agent, then you fall in the middle of that Venn diagram, my friend.

I see her stiffen and feel her second guessing her choice in a local watering hole. I don't blame her-we didn't leave things on a good note, and I'm pretty sure neither of us can go to the Lincoln Memorial anymore. But this is D.C. and it's more than possible (especially given my luck as of late), that we'll run into each other. Multiple times.

As stressed as I may be about this potential trainwreck of a conversation, I know that she's analyzing all of the potential outcomes and escape routes.

"Wow-hi," she says, a bit winded. "I thought you were in Indiana? Did you just get back in town?" I smile, trying to defuse some of the rapidly thickening tension, when her drink arrives. I decide not to say anything, since "less is more" is probably the best advice you can give to a man in matters of female-male communication.

"Yeah, I decided I missed being in the center of it all here. So when they offered me a legislative director position on McClansky's staff, I packed up and moved back. It's been about a week," I explain, hoping she won't dig into why I left. I've never been able to bullshit her, but only because I never felt the need to. She was one of the few people I'd trusted when I lived here, someone I felt I could rely on, without all the bullshit of female-male friendships attached.

But that's never how it works. Despite what anyone says, there are always strings.

And despite everything she told me that clusterfuck of a night, having casted me in the role of the villain instead of the hero and my decision to just fucking tell her what had happened, I allow myself the briefest moment of hope that maybe we can be something again.

No, that's what went wrong in the first place. But it's too soon to tell if we can be anything definitive.

We make small talk for a few more minutes, her eyes darting back and forth between my shirt collar and her friend behind me, before we part ways. I can see the horror in her eyes after she utters, "It was great running into you," when both of us knew it wasn't true.

I'm pretty sure we had both thought we'd never see each other again, made whatever peace we could, and moved the fuck on. Even if all you can do is sweep up the damage and walk away, never fully realizing the extent of what was broken.

I stare after her, watching her re-highlighted hair fade out of sight, taking a sip of my drink and allowing myself another brief moment of contemplation before I brush it aside with thoughts of work and family.

What had happened? It's too simplistic to say it was my fault, although I later acknowledged I fucked up. But it's too clean and misleading to say she's free of blame. We were an experiment from the beginning and too young and arrogant to realize it. Everything felt so fucking easy, but that should have been a red flag-nothing in life comes easy, after all.

Then there was the phone call that occurred when she texted to meet up at the Lincoln Memorial, one of the best spots in the city.

Women like to think men are either so simple they're incapable of basic human function or they're so complicated that they send signals, each tangled up with the other, to serve their own self-interests. I can't speak on behalf of all men (clearly I'm president of the "we're assholes but didn't know it" faction), but in my experience, it's neither.

It's hard to argue that men can be just as complicated as women when it's simply more acceptable and easier for that not to be true. Let's face it-when women break down crying, at worst, people feel sorry for her. When men break down crying, people just wonder why the hell he's PMSing (unless a sacred sports figure has just announced retirement; hey, there are exceptions).

And no, I'm not going to mansplain the complex every guy confronts from their teens to their deathbeds, but why is it more commonly assumed that if a woman is heartbroken the man is the one to blame? Sure, he probably fucked up along the way, but why does she automatically get a free pass? Given the murky state of male-female communication, couldn't part of the reason things fell apart be that the man simply was unaware of the severity of the situation?

You're probably shaking your head at my naiveté or shaking your fist threatening a very important part of me. Perhaps you're right.

After the two years I've had, I am more than willing to accept things for the way they are, not for the way they should be. I'm done running through all the different scenarios, wondering where things went wrong and how I played a role.

I'm done making excuses for people who only bullshit and confuse.

But it's difficult to say who exactly I'm done with, especially given the opposite standing I have with each woman. The sixteen year old version of me would have been ecstatic to be somewhat involved with two fantastic women at the same time, but the 32 year old version of me is just tired and burnt out.

For the first time in my life, I seriously consider moving to some obscure place-maybe in the Midwest-and opening up a ranch, peacefully alone. Away from countless diversions, sources of unnecessary stress, and the sludge pumping of D.C. Away from the windpipe crushing, migraine inducing dilemma of the woman I once loved and the woman I didn't realize I had hurt.

Away from the version of myself who got what he wanted, what he thought would make him happy, and instead thought, "Now what?"

I'm going to try to find the answers at the bottom of my glass tonight, despite the impending hangover that I know will make beg for the sweet release of death's embrace tomorrow afternoon. The more wisdom I gain during this special time, the more optimistic I feel about my homecoming.

Things will be different this time around; for once I know better because I'd just come back from worse. I can't afford another fuck-up, certainly not in one of the most well-connected places in the world. I need to take this slow, clear my head, and then re-open the wounds that only scabbed over.

Make a plan, set a few guidelines or rules, and then follow the fucking plan. It's simple, but not easy.

Just when I've made this plan, two drinks in, I feel my phone start to vibrate. Fuck. I know, even if it doesn't make any sense, who it is.

I play my role perfectly, having rehearsed the same lines over and over again, making sure I clearly enunciate with a convincing rhythm, earnestness be damned. I don't think about what this means when I know it can only mean nothing.

I hate to break it to you, ladies, but men can be complicated. But we don't try to be nor do we like to be. We understand the path of destruction we can leave and know the consequences of doing that Stupid Thing that will either cause you to leave us or cling to reasons to stay. Believe it or not, we are just as breakable as you try not to be, and we find ways to hold onto things that we should have let go a long time ago.

So at the end of the day, the only rule that matters? When things get rough, put away the goddamn phone and drink.

Oh, and since we're having a heart to heart here: don't ever assume you know everything about someone. Sometimes the most important thing is that one detail you've been blind to the entire time.


	3. The Morning After

Ahhh I'm thrilled over the number of visitors to my little story! Hopefully you all enjoy what you're reading (sidenote: is hate reading a thing? Basically hate-watching but for stories?) Lots of twists and turns to come : ) If you're feeling extra generous, let me know what you think so far!

Also, I love Georgetown in D.C., but let's be real. It attracts douchebags like Ryan Gosling attracts anyone with a pulse.

P.P.S. Guess who graces us with his presence in this chapter?

The Morning After

Bella

Sleep is one of the most natural cures (next to wine...although "natural" is kind of a stretch there) to any problem or issue you have in your life. There are days when I joke to my friends that I'm going to sleep for 12 hours, and I end up passing the fuck out for 14. Sometimes my sexual fantasies really just consist of my spreading out over the mattress, burying my head deeper into the pillow, hearing my own heartbeat-

Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Whose heartbeat am I hearing?

My dried out mascara audibly cracks when I blink slowly, refocusing so I can see my surroundings for the first time. Posters of a Lamborghini, Fight Club, and Oxford University assault my vision.

Oh shit. Did I fuck a college freshman?

There's just the right amount of douchery for it to be Georgetown, although I was nowhere near the main campus last night. Why-

A male groan interrupts my ever rising panic, and I quickly untangle myself and retreat to the safest part of every apartment-the bathroom. Holding my hair back, I quickly expel as much evil as possible, going through the usual promises to be a better person and never drink again.

My throbbing head plasters against the cool tile of the wall as I try to steady my breathing. I remember going to the new club on U St., dancing with some blonde guy, and then making out in the Uber. I remember rounding some of the bases but thankfully being too drunk to slide into home. Whew.

No fucking occurred last night. Bullet dodged.

Wow, my life is classy.

Another wave of nausea hits me, causing me to pay my respects to the aptly named porcelain throne. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. I need to get out of here. My head bows as I Spider-man my way upright and move over to the sink to splash some cold water on my face, barely keeping it together.

Breathe. In, out. In, out. In-

I rub my temples wearily, opening my eyes again. Temporarily collected, I gingerly open the door and comically peek out to make sure the coast is clear. I head back to the crime scene, relieved that Possible College Freshman is still asleep, before picking up my purse-checking to make sure my phone, wallet, and keys were inside-and pulling a Roadrunner out of there.

It's not until I'm outside, the sunlight assaulting my vision, that I realize sometimes the universe has a sense of humor.

The name of the apartment building where I spent my night of shame?

The Dickson.

* * *

The only upside to speed walking/lightly running in 3 inch heels on a Sunday morning is that you truly don't give a shit what you look like. Shame and self-derision take a backseat when you're starving. Although I'm painfully aware I'm wearing something a Dominatrix would wear to a job interview, all I could focus on was my singular need for nutrients. Keeping the slut-shaming to a minimum, I quickly look up the nearest coffee shop and start walking.

It doesn't help when I see an elderly couple exchange a look of alarm after I walk through the doors of a Starbucks a few minutes later.

Fucking Georgetown. I knew it. Well, it could be worse-

Right on cue, a group of boisterous and way too energetic college students enter behind me, laughing and giggling about their no doubt drunken antics last night. When I hear the first, "bro," I mentally run through a list of people who I had wronged, thinking this was definitely karmic retribution.

Still, I manage to gather what is left of my dignity (how much is a cup of coffee here?) and order my nonfat no whip caramel macchiato, standing off to the side and closing my eyes for a second just to imagine I were anywhere but here. I suddenly feel like a ten year old who believed that if you can't see anyone, then that means they can't see you.

Too bad that doesn't apply to hangovers.

Opening my eyes slowly and coming to terms with my clichéd morning after, I make my way to pick up the heaven in a cup, only for it to be rudely intercepted by a tall, distinctly male outline. I watch in horror as he picks up my wake-up call and takes a casual sip, as if my name weren't currently written on the side.

Oh, HELL no.

Although the jackhammers in my head have died down to a faint tap dancing, I am clearly in no mood to put up with this bullshit. But realizing that I'm still out in public (and well aware of the old judgmental couple behind me), I muster a probably psychotic smile and tap the asshole on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," I start, teeth clenched. "You seem to have taken my coffee-my name's actually written on the side there."

He turns around, and maybe if I were in a better mood-who isn't thinking of possibly maiming this guy for touching my precious purchase-I would notice the green eyes, the perfectly tousled hair, and the strong Henry Cavill jaw. I would notice he's wearing a very nicely tailored suit with an expensive silk tie.

I would notice that this is a guy I'd salute with my panties.

But I'm hungover as fuck and just did the walk of shame from a stranger's juvenile studio, so the only thing that separates my sanity and a complete mental breakdown is the very thing he just stole from me.

Please don't be a jerk. Please don't be a jerk.

He cocks an eyebrow, before glancing down at the name. "Your name is Bailey?"

I wince.

Coffee shops: We do this on purpose just to fuck with you.

"It's actually Bella," I clarify. Then I shrug and roll my eyes, indicating the universal, "Amirite?" sign, trying to make this situation as comfortable as possible, knowing exactly what it looked like from a bystander's point of view (a hooker propositioning a rich guy).

He doesn't buy it though, and I see the corners of his mouth (sidenote: yum) turn downward. He shrugs his broad shoulders (sidenote: double yum) and rolls his eyes, mimicking my previous gesture, before saying, "Well then I guess it's not yours."

What. The. Actual. F-

"Also, I think your friends are leaving without you," he casually comments, nodding his head over to the same group of college kids who are now by the door, before turning around.

Unfuckingbelieveable.

You know how sometimes there's a voice in your head that tells you to not do something, listing all of the reasons why you shouldn't do it and the regret you'll inevitably feel afterwards?

That voice was currently saying, "FUCK HIM UP."

So I watch my heeled foot raise itself, rotate my hip to get into position, and feel my heel make firm contact with the area right below his back.

Let's recap: I woke up this morning, hungover in a stranger's bed, walked over to a coffee shop, got said coffee stolen by a Suit, and in retaliation, decided to land a roundhouse kick on this guy's ass.

He stumbles a bit, and a slight fissure of pride works its way through me, until he regains his balance and slowly turns around.

I feel every molecule in my body freeze.

I also hear, "Oh heavens!" from behind me. Great. I just committed assault in front of Orville Redenbacher and his wife.

Suit Guy gives me a once-over, just long enough to assess and just short enough to be insulting. His jaw is locked as if someone has screwed it shut, and I feel myself slowly melting into the pile of ashes he undoubtedly wishes I were.

Just as I'm about to say something (or run away screaming), his expression grows shuttered and he coldly says, "This is why I never come here. They always forget to take the trash out."

Instead of my usual reaction-repetitive apologies and maybe even tearful explanation-I simply become more pissed.

This is The Guy. The one who believes he can have everything he wants and expects others to anticipate his needs; the one who doesn't feel guilty when he forgets birthdays and anniversaries and funerals; the one who sends mixed signals and doesn't understand why you're so Crazy when he's the one who's making you feel this way; the one who breaks your heart and leaves you to glue the pieces back together without a second glance.

The One truly does exist-but instead of making you fall in love, he's the one who makes you realize it's completely bullshit.

So on this pleasant Saturday morning, after everything that's happened in the past 48 hours, I simply say, "Fuck you," before walking out the door.

And ok, I may have tripped on my heel before I hit the door, ruining a perfectly dramatic exit, but I leave with more dignity than I had when I arrived.

* * *

24 hours later, having fully recovered from my hangover and only partially recovered from my disastrous free-for-all weekend, I hold my head high and nonetheless put on a smile and get back to work. While I do love my co-workers, work itself has become less consistent, especially given the temperamental client I have to deal with on a weekly basis, reporting the same results and giving the same explanations.

Healthcare consulting: 20% actual research, 50% babysitting, and 30% bullshit.

As hard as it is to believe, I do love my job. The problem is, because we're client-based, my job quality is directly correlated with my client. Whatever the client thinks they want (guess where the emphasis is here) is whatever we try to talk them out of.

Considering most of our clients are from the government, this is not an easy task.

There are perks, and aside from the pretty generous salary and decent benefits, I'm confident that I have the best boss in the entire world: Carlisle "Carl" Cullen, the CEO of IHS aka International Health Solutions aka what pays my rent and seemingly endless shoe supply. Not only is he a revered expert in my field, but he also single-handedly started this private consulting firm, going practically bankrupt during the 80s as a result before taking advantage of his connections to build himself back up. It's been in the clear with increasing profits each year.

He's also been my mentor ever since I started at the company, right after getting my Ph.D. With blue eyes that (I shit you not) twinkle and a fatherly smile, Carl exudes a quiet intelligence, as if he were always thinking of exactly what to say in order to deliver the magical speech that inspires us to get our jobs done.

Which basically sums up our monthly staff meetings.

I'm a head researcher at the company, and therefore not directly involved in any of the financial or business side of operations, but Carl had taken me under his wing and taught me some of the basics. He's also hinted that he wouldn't mind if I took over when he retired.

Ok, that's a generous interpretation, but a girl can dream, right?

The bi-annual staff meeting is today, which means at least half of the company is present in the conference room. I walk in, startled by how much light floods in like some deranged vampire. I square back my shoulders and quickly take a seat, smiling at Carl in recognition, who raises an eyebrow in response. Carl is blessed with a face that always looks like he's intensely concentrating on something, similar to Liam Neeson or Samuel L. Jackson, which means he could be thinking about where to eat lunch later or where his other sock is, but look like he were solving a budgetary crisis.

I, on the other hand, have the opposite problem. I either look hungry, pissed off, or tired (sometimes a combination of all three), and while those are usually pretty close to the truth-I don't think Sheryl Sandberg would approve.

As per usual in meetings, I pay attention for the first half but then drift off to make plans for the weekend. I remind myself I won't get shitfaced, although I can't wait to see the expression on Rosalie's face. Say what you will about relationships-after the first couple of years (re: one year), it's difficult to match the entertainment of your single friend's endless dates with the spontaneity of choosing Hulu over Netflix with your boyfriend.

Suddenly Carl stands up, approaching the podium. Oh shit, something big is happening. He usually doesn't say much until the very end and we're only halfway through the meeting.

Are there more layoffs? Maybe I'm getting promoted? Wait, is this my coronation?

Back to Earth, Bella.

Carl looks a bit like a ten year old on Christmas morning, so my interest is doubly piqued. He leans into the microphone. "I'd like to introduce the newest Board member of IHS. He will be taking over as Vice President of Health Behavior, after serving in executive capacities over at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and ABS Inc."

A collective groan spreads through the crowd at the mention of our biggest competitor, and Carl grins good-naturedly. "Yes, he came over from enemy lines; now I've never condoned any sort of hazing, but I can make an exception this time." Laughs and claps all around.

Goddamn, that's quite a resume. Who is this guy? After being in the health behavior field for almost a decade, I know most of the big shots, so there's a chance I might recognize him. I wonder if it was-

Oh shit. Oh motherfucking ballhumping shit.

It's him-Suit Guy from the coffee shop of hell. And apparently my new boss.

Carl slaps him on the back before tugging him behind the podium, in an almost intimate way.

As if he were already very familiar with him. As if-

"Please welcome my son, Edward Masen."

Well, fuck me.


	4. The Eventual Adjustment

Helloooo, it's me (again). I can't promise posting this frequently in the future, but for now, since I've written the next few chapters, it makes sense narratively to upload both Bella and Jasper's POVs together. It's hard to write a broody male POV without sounding like whining or male pain, so let me know how you think I did : )

Also disclaimer: I know nothing about what goes on at the Hill (if it wasn't obvious already...)

The Eventual Adjustment

Jasper

"Where is the report on the Agriculture bill? HR 1789?" I bark, watching the LAs scramble around. Christ, not even a month in and I already feel my blood pressure rising, putting me in the at-risk group for hypertension.

"I've emailed it to you," Seth says. "You also have a meeting with Paul Lahote from Congressman-"

"Yes, Congressman Denali's LA," I remember. "Let him in when he's here." I stare him down and he blinks at me, confused for a second, before he realizes he needs to get the hell out of my sight.

God I hope I wasn't this clueless when I was an intern.

I let out a sardonic laugh. Well of course I was.

Once upon a time, I was a doe-eyed intern, thinking that my impressive education from Boston would make me more realistic, more adult, and more likely to be taken seriously.

What a fucking delusion that was.

Instead I was treated like a typical idiot, tasked with performing simple functions and executing basic demands. It took me a month before the office manager assigned me to more important office tasks (handling the email account, for example). By then my version of reality, where I could easily climb up the congressional ladder, had disintegrated.

Like most interns, I too had succumbed to the poisonous and cynical atmosphere of Washington. I didn't want to play the family legacy card, but I pushed that self-destruct button with everything I had after realizing it was the most expedient way to get everything I wanted.

Correction: Everything I thought I wanted.

I sink into my chair and stretch my arms above my head, closing my eyes for a split second and recalling the meditation techniques that she had taught me so long ago.

 _"Stop laughing," I remember saying. Giggles erupted behind me and I felt her hands slide down to my eyes._

 _"Stop talking," she instructed. "Ok, create the most peaceful image you can see with your mind."_

I snort, slowly opening my eyes. Peace is not a luxury I can afford right now.

"Sir, I have Lahote on line 2," Seth says.

Showtime.

* * *

I've been telling people for weeks since my return that I came back for the excitement and centralized action in D.C., but the truth is, I'm not sure how invested I am in the game anymore. Being campaign manager satisfied my itch to finally be of some use, to run something that was mostly my own, and to coordinate with people I trusted and respected.

But after the fallout, I feel more jaded than I'd ever been. Though I'm grateful to have this job, the everyday activities seem to tire me out rather than energize me. Waking up and getting out of bed is starting to feel like a chore rather than a privilege.

Jesus, and I also blast Adele in the morning while crying in the shower.

I need to get ahold of myself. Things move a bit more slowly, especially during the winter, and I haven't fully adjusted to the pace yet. Not to mention being in this town makes me feel on edge.

I pull up into my row-house and sit in my car, pondering my night ahead. Check ESPN, go through my voicemail (with an SOS from my dear old mother, no doubt), check email, watch an episode of some TV show, study the briefing notes, workout, and then sleep. I'd been following this precise schedule for the past month now, and for the first time I realize how sad it is.

I clench my fingers on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling an urge to do something different. Maybe find some friends? Right, like any of my close friends have time to spare when they either followed the same schedule religiously or had family and kids to deal with.

My breathing starts to quicken, so I force myself to calm down. Not going down that road tonight.

I sigh before grabbing my briefcase and exiting the car. As I pull up my phone and scroll through the contacts, I linger on Bella's phone number. We hadn't talked since the night at the bar, where we both reacted like two middle schoolers at a dance. I'm still fairly confused about her, but I can't help but wonder how horrible it would seem if I reached out.

Given what had happened, it's not like I can make it any worse, right?

After cooking dinner and having a drink, I sink down in my couch and write, "I know this is kind of sudden, but how do you feel about getting a drink sometime?"

There. I acknowledged the elephant in the room. The ambiguity hopefully suggested that it wouldn't be a big deal if we didn't meet up. The ball is clearly in her court. Putting my phone aside, I rub my eyes and turn my head towards whatever's on the TV.

I eye the crystal of my glass, watching the light scatter into a million different rays, and take another generous sip of my whiskey. At some point, I would stop moping around, get off my ass, and get back out there. But even when I first moved here, I didn't like to interact socially unless I absolutely had to. There were exceptions, but most of those exceptions are now happily married or bitterly divorced. I don't fall into either of those categories, but I can't continue to be the misanthropic cynic either. So I just sit on my couch, sulking like a goddamned teenager who just had his license revoked.

My phone vibrates and I lay my head on my couch before glancing up to see the culprit.

"Call me," it reads. Short, brief, with just the amount of pain-in-the-ass that only my mother could perfect.

Next. I check my voicemail, grateful that there's only four messages when usually it was in the double digits.

"Jasper, this is mom. We need to discuss your Thanksgiving plans-Dad wants to invite you to the annual company party, but I need you here for the awards ceremony. Call me back so we can work your schedule out."

I groan. Once again, I'm in the middle of a tug of war with my parents, with no way to step out of the crossfire. Perfect. It's barely October, so of course my parents are already planning the holidays. Delete.

"Hey Jazz, what's going on? I heard you're back in D.C.-welcome back, dick. What, you get tired of wiping Carpenter's ass? Anyway, hit me up if you want to grab a beer or something. Leah sends her love."

I grin, recognizing the no frills tone of my best friend from college, Jacob Black, who married his college sweetheart Leah Clearwater three years ago. Of all the best friends I've recycled through, Jake is probably the smartest and most dependable man I know. On the day of my breakup, he rented out a private golf course; we played a few holes, made great use of the bar and cigar room, and had a quick but deep chat:

Me: "It just sucks. Like, what happens now? We never see each other again after graduation?"

Him: "Hmmm."

Me: "What the fuck is a break anyway?"

Him: *shrugs*

Me: "I just don't know if I can do this anymore."

Him (squints at me): "Do you see a future with her? Are you willing to sacrifice things you care about to be with her and make her happy? Will that make you happy?"

Me: *speechless*

As it turned out, the answer was no-to all three questions.

Next message.

"H-hey," I hear. "I know you probably didn't expect to hear from me so soon...um, I just-I wanted you to know that I've missed you. And if you ever want to talk-if you ever want to see me or anything, I'm here. For you. Ok, talk soon."

I close my eyes before replaying the message again, listening to the uncertainty and nervousness in her tone, and throw my phone to the other side of the couch. I immediately sit up and scrub my hands over my face, making a note to shave tomorrow morning before work.

Whoever said time heals all wounds didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. The only way wounds can heal is if you stop cutting yourself. And yeah, maybe I thought I had healed over these past few years. It might have left an ugly scar, but I was able to repair most of the damage and make it stop.

It's only after I hear her voice that I realize I'm still bleeding.


	5. The Meet and Greet

Hi guys! Just want to return the shoutout from LayAtHomeMom, who generously mentioned this story and brought a lot of traffic. A couple of you mentioned adding the POV at the beginning of the chapter, and I completely agree. Thanks for the tip! Some of you mentioned wanting to hear from Edward, but fair warning-that may be awhile. Obviously, this will be a B/E HEA but I just don't think a peek in his head would add anything to the story yet. Once things start to really shake up, we'll definitely take a dip in that pool : ) Hopefully you find Jasper interesting enough to stick around, but I completely understand if you'd prefer something more traditionally Bella/Edward. Whatever you decide, thanks for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting! :D

The Meet and Greet

Bella

I have to get out of here. If Suit G-Edward sees me and says something with that unreasonably attractive mouth, I am completely screwed. And more importantly, possibly fired.

Oh God. Dry heave.

I gather my notebook and head straight to the back, where a mass of people are exiting. As politely as possible, I dart my way to the very front before escaping into my office. Once safely inside, I take a deep breath and put my head in my hands.

How in the hell am I going to explain this to Carl? Temporary bout of insanity? PMS-related symptom? Ooh, new birth control side effect?

Basically, anything that could be related to "womanly troubles"-something that made guys scatter faster than the words, "I want to define our relationship."

Thinking about the ways men suck is not going to put me in the right mood, so I quickly put on an upbeat pop song and brainstorm realistic options. Honestly, the only way I could reasonably approach this is to find him before Carl brokers an introduction. But what the fuck am I going to say?

There's no way he could change his mind about me after I literally kicked his ass.

Heh. I bite my lip to suppress the automatic smile.

Then again-maybe he would be somewhat willing to start over? Perhaps I misjudged him and got the wrong impression? After all, isn't that what I'm currently trying to convince him of-that I don't sleep around and wake up hungover in the nicest part of town and assault well dressed men?

I replay the morning in my head again-I remember the way my panic fractured into the familiar insecurity and immediate self-blame from my childhood, warring with the repetitive Strong Woman front that I'd adopted in college. I remember the not-so-subtle disgust and derision on his face, like I was an ant he wanted to step on.

And that's when I realize that this is a guy who might never change his opinion about me.

So he doesn't like me and thinks I'm "trash". Well, I've been called worse, both in front of and behind my back. The only thing that matters is that we're colleagues and have to put this shit behind us. Instead of being on the verge of a nervous breakdown every time we're in a room together, I have to suck it up and confront the situation head on like an adult and apologize for my behavior. Whether he chooses to accept it and carry on professionally is up to him.

And just like an adult, I procrastinate for the next hour, looking up nearby homeless shelters (in case this really goes south). Finally, I take a deep breath, do some neck rolls, and whisper, "Let's do this."

Full disclosure: there are times I may be a bit dramatic.

I straighten my spine, hoping my posture will exude the confidence I am not even close to feeling, as I walk to his office. Most people would panic before a stressful situation or analyze alternative options. I, for better or for worse, put all my weight behind my decisions and bulldoze ahead, without looking back. Nothing annoys me more than constantly wavering from one choice to the next.

I had done the tightrope routine, determined to get to the other side, only to have the rope be cut and look down when it was too late.

"Come in," I hear, trying not to notice his voice is a deep baritone that is not altogether unattractive.

I take a deep breath before slowly easing in. His office is relatively bare, with gorgeous wall to floor windows that showcase the D.C. skyline. There's a few pictures, mostly with him and his family, while various diplomas hang behind him on the wall. I try to rein in my automatic judgement of him-spoiled Ivy Leaguer whose wardrobe costs a month's rent-and zero in on the jackass in question. My fists clench when I see him in his grey suit, which is tailored to his frame to perfection, and my pulse races just a bit faster at the sharp jaw and piercing green eyes.

Alarm flashes and he leans forward, but I quickly interrupt him.

"I just wanted to apologize for my actions at the coffee shop yesterday. It was absolutely childish and inappropriate, and I don't really have a reasonable excuse, other than the obvious fact that I wasn't feeling very well. I just want to assure you that I have never done anything close to...that, and I won't be in the future. Um, I know I didn't exactly start off with a great impression, but I'd like the opportunity to change that. So...yeah."

Not exactly The Gettysburg Address, but it would have to do for now.

During my speech, his posture was rigid and his gaze assessing. After my awkward finish, he simply leans back in his chair and taps his index finger on the cherry wood desk, never breaking eye contact.

I stare back, willing my body to be still, even as nervous energy races through it. My apology might have been lackluster, but I had done my part, and now it's his turn.

Three heart beats pass until his head jerks forward. Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he replies, "Apology accepted. Everyone has their bad days. I've read your resume and it's quite impressive."

I try not to preen or act overly suspicious. "Thank you," I respond carefully. "I'm familiar with a couple of your projects at the Gates Foundation-you've done a lot of work on sexual violence and broadening access to contraception in several West African countries, which is something I'm also interested in."

His eyes narrow for a millisecond before he plasters on a smile. "Yes, the work was definitely interesting." He pauses again, briefly glancing at his phone, before standing up. "I apologize, Ms. Swan, but I have a call to get to. Thank you for your apology."

I nod and force myself not to shrink back or give an inch, no matter how tall he is. Like other hot guys who majored in Smouldering at Fuck Me Now University, he buttons his suit jacket, which stretches over his muscled chest. For some reason, my eyes fixate on his neck and I absently note how bitable the smooth, soft skin looks-

What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.

Panicking at my newfound biting fetish, I shake my head before extending my hand forward. "Of course," I say, half sincere. "I appreciate your...um," Oh God. Of all the times for words to fail me. It just figures that when I need to shut up, everything comes pouring out like a fucking busted fire hydrant, but when I need to say something, I go mute.

He just stares, waiting for me to finish and I feel like such an idiot struggling to find an appropriate finish to my sentence.

"Flexibility?" He suggests, his lips turning up at the corners.

"Exactly," I respond, smiling back, trying to separate the man standing before me with the man who stole my coffee.

His hand slips into mine and I'm bit overwhelmed by how warm and smooth his skin feels. It's nice. Better than nice. Almost nice enough that I start thinking of the other ways his skin could rub against mine…

I shake my head again, suddenly feeling flushed, and he wrinkles his brow in confusion. "Are you alright?" He asks.

I nod and abruptly pull away. "Fine," I say. "I have a slight cold and it's been messing with me a bit this morning."

He nods again, almost robotically, before settling back down to his desk. I realize this is his way of dismissing me, the lowly peon.

The one who also kicked his butt-yeah, I'm officially inducting that moment to my Kickass Hall of Fame.

"It's nice to meet you. Officially, I mean," I say, cursing my cheeks that are probably tomato red by now. He smirks and I can't help but notice once again how attractive he is. He's a bit on the pale side, but not in a sickly way. Rather, his high cheek bones, straight nose, and unfairly full lips make him resemble a Greek sculpture. Although he's obviously lean, it's just as noticeable there's some serious muscle and definition underneath. His hair is weird (some kind of dark copper), but somehow works on him.

Or you know, he's not unfortunate looking. Whatever.

But he's my boss. And as kinky and erotic as a hookup might be, it would be a Very Horrible Idea.

I turn around and head back to my office, heaving a sigh of relief at how the meeting had gone. There's still a good chance he might tell Carl, but I would deal with that when it happened. As far as spontaneous apologies went, this one seemed like it ended on a good note. And given his resume and interests, I almost don't hate the idea of working with him on future projects and seeing how things would progress between us.

Professionally, I mean.

I dive back into work, becoming familiar with the client's new project and writing a memo to the research team about the needs, costs, and deliverables. Two hours pass, and my recent surge of productivity helps put the disastrous meeting with Edward behind me.

That is, until I check my email.

From: Edward Masen

To: Bella Swan

Ms. Swan-

Thank you for speaking with me today. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for you. I do appreciate all of your years of service here at IHS, and look forward to working with you on future projects. I hope you recover from your cold.

Best,

Edward Masen, Ph.D., M.B.A.

Vice President, Dept. of Health Behavior,

IHS Solutions

P.S. I don't believe I mentioned this to you previously, but I was actually on speaker phone with the Board when you interrupted. You may be getting a call from my father sometime tomorrow.

I feel my blood rush to my toes, and I don't have to look in the mirror to see how suddenly pale I've become.

* * *

I've always had a half glass empty perspective when it came to people, but I've only truly hated a few:

My 9th grade gym teacher: Forcing us to play dodgeball multiple times a week and pretending it wasn't a slightly less violent version of the Hunger Games.

My second uncle: Being a misogynistic and racist asshole who couldn't be bothered to be pulled away from his bottle of gin.

The version of myself two years ago: Losing control of who I was and who I wanted to become.

And now, added to the roster: Edward Masen. I ask Carl the next day during our fun phone call why he has a different last name, and he just laughed. "He didn't want anyone to cut corners for him once they figured he was related to me," was the explanation.

This would be impressive, except he now works as a VP for his father's company. When I bring this up, hoping I'm not out of line, Carl simply replies, "Believe me, he resisted for as long as he could. I'm just glad he's finally done traipsing around our competitors and has finally decided to join the company. I trust him with the direction, and he has enough experience to silence anyone who thinks he got the job just because he's related to me."

Is he really though? Are you sure you didn't find him on top of a rock or in the woods?

When I explain to Carl what happened that morning, withholding the one night stand detail, he burst out laughing.

"Well, hell, he's an adult," he finally settles on, barely regaining his composure. "He can deal with it. What's important is you two finding a way to be professional. Who knows-someday, you might be working very closely, side-"

I lean forward into the receiver, as if I could will him to finish his sentence.

"Listen to me, rambling like an old fool," he interrupts. "Well, Bella, as amusing as this chat has been, I don't have any worries about you two. I'm sure it'll work out. Let me know if anything changes."

I quietly lay my head on my desk, resisting the urge to bang it repeatedly. "Yes, Carl," I say, resigned. "Thanks for listening. Have a great day."

"You just ensured that I will," he replies, still giggling.

Perfect. Where was that in the Employee's Handbook?

The only problem with my getting back at him is that he's still my boss. And as any corporate drone will tell you, those who have more power are more likely to get away with abusing it. In order for me to retaliate, I'd have to have a guarantee from him that I wouldn't be fired.

And unless I see a pig fly by my window in the next five minutes, that's not a guarantee I can count on.

So the question becomes: how do you retaliate when this person has the power to fire you?

Answer: don't leave any traces of evidence implicating you for the crime.

It's easier said than done, but I can't just ignore this and pretend it never happened. With Coffeegate and the Speakerphone Debacle of 2016, I just can't let him go unpunished. And if I really want to psychoanalyze my actions, then maybe it's because he reminds me of Jasper, who I also let off the hook, unpunished.

I know I'm coming off as completely petty, to which I want to remind you: He. Started. It.

...That didn't help, did it?


	6. The Half-Assed Attempt

Hi everyone! Not sure if people actually read these boring author notes, but just wanted to say that your reviews are greatly appreciated and intrigue and humble the crap outta me. So keep 'em coming :)

Things coming up in the next few chapters: Less brooding Jasper by himself. More answers. Possible reunion. Cue dramatic gasp!

The Half-Ass Attempt

Jasper

Buzz. Buzz.

Buzz. Buzz.

Spots dance in the corner of my eyes as I blink rapidly, watching all the blurry shapes and colors re-focus until I realize that I passed out last night after spending my night at the new speakeasy (the contradiction slightly blasphemous). I roll over, groaning and debating how long I can stay in bed without feeling like hammered shit.

Buzz. Buzz.

"Shut up," I mutter into my pillow, already starting to lose consciousness again.

BUZZ. BUZZ.

"Alright, fuck," I exclaim hoarsely as I shoot up, then immediately register my stupidity as the wrath of the 900 gin and tonics that I downed the night before returns with a vengeance. Keeping my head down, I scramble for my phone.

"Jasper," I growl, closing my eyes and clutching my sheets to steady myself.

"Sweetie, why didn't you call me back?" My mother accuses, her signature blend of suspicion and mild panic resonating loud and clear. "I left you three voicemails last night-we really need to finalize the details of the holiday plans. Now, here's my suggestion-" I tune her out, making sounds of affirmation every so often, agreeing to whatever she's got planned.

Lessons learned the hard way.

My phone buzzes amidst the call and I quickly glance down to see that Jake's texted me: "Brunch? The Diplomat in 30?"

Perfect, time to execute my escape. And get something in my system before I throw it up.

I clear my throat, wincing when I feel my throat muscles rub against each other like sandpaper. "Listen, that sounds great, mom," I interject hoarsely. "Just email me the plan and I'll book the tickets. I'll talk to you later."

She sniffs, no doubt more than a bit offended at being interrupted, but relents all the same. "Fine, just let me know when you have everything. Love you."

I hang up and studiously avoid the mirror, knowing I look like absolute crap, before making my way to the bathroom to forcefully wake myself up under the cold spray of the shower.

I try to remember the details of last night, but like most of my weekends (and that's a liberal definition-Wednesdays are in this category), everything blurs together. Luckily, I'm in a city where budding alcoholism is not only tolerated but celebrated and even required in some capacities (e.g. receptions on the Hill).

The water hits the back of my neck as I struggle to stay upright. Taking slow deep breaths, I automatically replace any anxiety I have with apathy, her cooler sister, although the transition's been a bit more difficult given my recent relocation.

 _"Breathe, in and out," she said soothingly, or at least attempted to be._

 _"If we're doing yoga, you owe me a drink," I muttered under my breath, resisting the urge to drop to the ground from the pounding in my head._

 _"Shhhh," she admonished. "Focus on the rhythm of your breathing and picture-"_

 _"Nicki Minaj down on all fours?" I asked dryly, and felt a punch on my right arm. I opened my eyes and saw her, upright and bristling with indignation, a glare ready._

 _"You're not even trying," she complained. I rolled my eyes, but couldn't conceal my smile._

 _"You deceived me. You said you had a cure for my hangover, and I don't know what the fuck this is, but I still feel like shit. Worse now because you forced me to breathe."_

 _She laughed, before scooting in front of me until I could smell the floral scent of her shampoo. I took a deep breath when I feel her soft, cool hands wrap firmly in my own…_

...And I watched them tremble, as I sat across from her, gutted over her confession.

I open my eyes slowly, shivering partially because of the temperature of the water. Where the fuck did that come from? When I was on the campaign trail, it had been easy to suppress random memories that popped up now and then. But with the slower pace of the office, it's now become almost impossible not to replay something before everything got fucked up, before-

Stop. There's no use in dwelling on it now. Not before brunch, anyway. And definitely not while hungover.

* * *

Even though two years has passed, Jake looks exactly the same: Jet black hair, tan skin, and a smile even the best car salesman would kill to have. Which is especially hilarious given that his family fortune is in automobile manufacturing. Specifically, his great-great-great grandfather designed the Lazarus.

Yeah, the car that was in the last James Bond film. That Lazarus.

"What's up, man?" he greets, his mega watt grin on display, as we exchange a quick hug.

"How's it hanging?" I ask, and feel immediately gratified and a little disgusted when he answers, "A bit to the left."

We both snicker at each other like the ten year olds we secretly are before taking our seats.

He hastily glances at the menu and crosses his arms. "So am I getting my three grand or what?" He asks bluntly, causing me to groan.

Five years ago, when I first started working for Senator Carpenter's office on the Hill, Jake had come to a reception with me. After observing my former boss for about half an hour, he concluded, "He's going to get busted one day. Probably something weird. And not sex tape weird, but kinky, likes to meow in bed weird-I bet you."

Due to my inhalation of multiple shots of whiskey, I'd drunkenly asked, "How much?"

And the rest is history. I even remember trying to shake his hand on the bet but slipping and smacking myself in the face with my elbow.

So I guess the bet wasn't the stupidest thing I'd done that night.

I bury my head in the menu, avoiding his knowing gaze. "Yeah, yeah," I reply in a bored tone. "You'll get your dirty money. What are you drinking?"

He grunts. "Fucking water. Leah's in her third trimester and she can sniff any trace of booze off me like a fucking hobo," he grumbles.

Did I mention he wasn't the most politically correct person in the world?

I decide to wisely stick with water too and put my menu down. "Third kid huh?" I muse, scratching my chin. "You know what they say about the middle child…"

"Oh please," he interrupts, waving his hand. "My kids will be far too superior to worry about any of that shit. I mean, look at who they'll have as a kickass dad." He points to himself with both thumbs and breaks out into a cheesy grin, looking every inch the stereotypical dad who thinks it's OK to wear socks with sandals.

In public. Have they no shame?

"Hmmm," I start again, wanting to fuck with him, as best friends do. "An excellent point. I just wonder if these wonderkids and their mother know about spring break during our junior year…" I slowly trail off, resisting the urge to twirl my imaginary mustache.

His eyes widen and his shoulders droop, terror clearly setting in.

Still got it.

Leaning in close, Jake sports a comically grave expression on his face. "We swore not to speak of that night and take it to our graves," he reminds me quietly. "I made you put your hand on the hotel Bible."

I roll my eyes. "It was a Macbook, dude, and one that I'm pretty sure you watched porn on."

His eyes glaze over, as is custom when sex is mentioned among men.

The drinks arrive and I sense we both take this moment of silence to regroup and have some real talk. "So are you gonna stay here for the next few years?" He asks, as if I know the answer.

I shrug. "I honestly don't have a clue what's going to happen. I'm probably going to stick with it for now, but I don't know. Maybe I'll go into consulting after a few years. Join a think tank."

It's ironic that I spent so much time in my 20s stressing, planning, and trying for my career. "Career"-even the word sounds empty, instead of signifying untapped potential. Did I climb the ladder and prove myself? On paper, maybe. But instead of feeling like I'd accomplished something significant, something that was wholly mine, I only felt trapped-torn between seeking opportunities to renew my youthful ambition and just giving in and embracing the humdrum routine.

I absently add, "Maybe I'll travel somewhere, spend some time with the family."

Jake practically does a spit take and laughs out loud. "Right-as if you could spend more than a week with your family without committing homicide. And I'm not bailing you out again."

I roll my eyes. Get in a fight with a man who disrespected my home state once and I never live it down.

Granted, the man was also my mother's ex-husband and my first stepfather. So that complicated things.

Jake's chuckles subside and he relaxes in his chair. "Seriously, you already went into hiding for two years-what's the point of running again?" I shrug again, offering no insight, stubbornly refusing to answer the question that's lingered in the back of my mind since my return.

"I guess there really isn't one," I respond evenly. "I can't exactly avoid her forever, can I?"

Jake frowns. "Who, Alice? Have you heard from her since you got back?"

I try to downplay my reaction and carefully place my hands on my knees, just in case they start to shake. "We had dinner a few weeks ago. She's called since, but we haven't really talked." I pause and look down, studying the blurry red and white stripes of the tablecloth through my glass. "We haven't really talked in a long time."

I cautiously glance at him, just in time to see him frown. "Well, been there, done that," he finally says. "Jesus, who'd have thought-"

He abruptly stops when he sees my jaw clench. "Whatever. So, you been following the Eastern Conference?"

A bitter smile twists across my face. I don't know how to finish his question, but there are a couple of options:

Who'd have thought that she could lie to you?

Who'd have thought she could still break you?

And perhaps most importantly-who'd have thought that you could walk away?

We talk about sports for a bit, then inevitably shift the conversation to classmates who have changed in some way, shape, or form, and reminisce about the naive and stupid stunts we pulled in college. This usually happens every time we meet up; we make fun of our younger selves just so we can relish the control and maturity we now hope we have.

A slowly rising dread pulls me under as I realize for the first time that I've regressed. Granted, the booze soaked weekends were a giant fucking hint, but it doesn't hit me until I sit across from Jake, a family man with a decent career. By now, I thought I'd be married with kids and running a think tank or state agency. I thought I would be in a rowhouse in D.C. with a family, spending my weekends visiting museums and hosting barbecues.

Basically, I thought I would have accomplished at least half of the goals that I've since abandoned.

My breathing starts to quicken and the edges of my vision start to blur.

 _I'm sorry. Don't hate me._

 _You will never be happy. Because people like you don't deserve it._

Heart pounding, I grab the rest of my water and finish it before nodding along to Jake's animated story.

"And that, my friend, is why you do not wear jeans to a strip club." He chortles at this, and I manage to flash a weak smile.

I try to change the subject before he notices I just had a mini-panic attack. "So how's Leah really doing? Has she tried to kill you yet?" I ask, clearing my throat and willing my pulse to decelerate.

He smirks. "You and I both know she sleeps with a butcher knife under her pillow every night wondering if she'll get to use it," he replies dryly.

We both chuckle a bit at that. If there were ever a couple that exemplified "opposites attract" and made it work, it would be Jake and Leah. While Jake was as type B as you could get (much to his family's chagrin), Leah had been the valedictorian and ran her own start-up before deciding to sell and invest in other ventures instead.

Leah's the kind of person who plans out every meticulous detail, usually at least a year before the actual event. Her wedding had been the stuff of nightmares, and although she insisted the two bridesmaids who'd been hospitalized a week before had "third party conflicts", we all knew they had been pushed to the cliff and chosen to jump.

"I still can't believe she chose to marry you over Mike Newton," I snicker, knowing this would annoy the shit out of him and enjoying my right to do so.

"That fucker?" He scoffs. "Please. I still can't believe he tried to cheat off of me in MechE senior year; I should've kicked his ass right then and there. Plus, I heard he got his dick wet and ended up with syphilis last year." I cough from laughing, and instantly jab back, "Probably from some hooker at a truck stop."

Ok, so it's not like we're any better.

I'm not gonna lie-while I knew that women gossiped and joked about sex, I didn't think they were as blatant or crass as men.

That's why it came as a bit of a shock when, during my freshman orientation, someone looked me up and down and asked, "Circumcised?", followed by what I guessed to be a sexy wink but looked like a constipated eye twitch instead.

No, I've since found out that women can talk about all the aspects of sex-position, skill level, length of foreplay, number of orgasms (or more accurately, how close they came to one).

Not to mention every detail known to womankind about the penis.

Good God, I don't think I've ever come so close to therapy than after Bella drunkenly told me what women talked about behind closed doors.

Speaking of which-I check my phone and discover the screen empty. My stomach drops a little, but I regain my composure. Reaching out was probably a mistake, but I was always a bit selfish when it came to her. After two years of silence, I want nothing more than to see her and pretend everything is normal again.

Even if I don't necessarily deserve it.

"Hey, whatever happened to Bella? You heard from her?" Jake asks curiously. He sits back and rubs his chin, staring off into the distance. "I really liked her. She was good for you."

I school my features into a nonchalant expression. "I texted her," I reply with my patented bored tone. "Not sure if we're going to hang out, but it is what it is."

The mood suddenly shifts as Jake stares me down, and for a second, he almost looks like a disappointed brother. He puts his drink down and slowly leans forward.

"Look man, of all people I get that you're not in a position, possibly ever, to be serious with someone, but you realize you can't just pretend everything's fine with a glass of scotch, right?"

I can feel his gaze bore into me, and I'm forced to look away. "Yupp," I reply, letting the lethargy creep into my voice for the first time that morning.

What else do I say? Yeah, I know I fucked up with two women who were important to me. I know I ran like a complete coward. But let me ask you:

What do you do when your ex and best friend both blindside you on the same day, only hours apart?

What do you do when they both look at you, wanting something you can't give?

To this day, I still don't know if I made the right decision. All I know is that I stared down the barrel of the shotgun and pulled the trigger.


	7. The Shot Heard Around the Office

So from here on out, the chapters will be longer, which means that unfortunately, so will the time between chapters : / But hopefully it's worth it! Also, good news for those of you who are impatient for answers-they're coming around the corner. But first-let's check in with the Best Co-Workers of the Year, shall we?

The Shot Heard Around the Office

Fate may be cruel but reality is a bitch, which I assume are the only reasons I was placed on a project with Dickface two days after he started.

It's practically unheard of, a VP working so closely with a head researcher on the rather lucrative Boyz2Men program, a peer education intervention that focuses on generating discussion among young men about sexual health in urban areas. VPs are usually involved in the business aspect of projects, sometimes report writing, and generally very hands-off. I knew there was a good chance Edward would oversee the project, given the experience he had in the field, but I don't know why he had specifically requested to be involved in all other aspects of it.

Other than the obvious theory that he doesn't trust me.

Professionally, I had been involved in the program's development, which had its roots from my graduate thesis. Now I could finally evaluate it with the company's resources. Personally, I saw this as a much needed return to the topic that made me fall in love with my field in the first place.

So why is he expanding his role? More importantly, who the hell did I piss off in a past life?

Ok, yes-he and I are one of the few researchers with considerable experience in sex education programs at IHS. But sometimes, reason and logic can go fuck themselves, especially when I've embarrassed myself twice in front of this guy, apologized once, and still gotten nothing from him.

How is it possible that this is the son of a man I once caught feeding a stray cat outside of our building, who in response sheepishly grinned before joking, "Don't tell my wife."

Unfortunately, the reasons don't matter. We're officially working together on a project that I'm responsible for and screwing it up just because I want to get back at him is not a good idea. Even I can (begrudgingly) admit that.

Sometimes I hate being an adult.

* * *

"In conclusion, great job on the recruitment and testing plan-the instrument looks fully functional-"

"Looks functional? Is it functional, or not, Ms. Swan?" comes the grating voice of the human shaped testicles in front of me.

I hold back a fuck-you grimace but am unable to stop my left eye from twitching. "Yes, it's fully functional. Next, we just need to confirm the deliverables schedule with the client, and we should be able to start data collection sometime next week."

Edward frowns. "Do we have an estimated date?"

I grit my teeth. "Not yet. The programmers are still making last minute fixes in production mode-"

"Well, then how is the "survey fully functional?" He retorts. I clench my fists underneath the table and imagine him engulfed in flames. Or ripped apart by vultures. Yeah, that's definitely bloodier.

"The survey is fully functional because it's been thoroughly tested and every issue has been logged and fixed. Now it is in the production mode, which means the programmers are setting it up so respondents can access it by sometime next week. Do you need any further clarification, Edward?" I respond sweetly, punctuating my desire to see him tossed into the sea with a saccharine smile.

He raises his eyebrows, as if to suggest he had no idea why my response wasn't perfectly polite.

Remember Adult Bella, who decided to be mature and level-headed and not start a feud with her boss?

She is now applying war paint to her face, having sharpened her arrows and polished her guns.

We'd been doing this dance for the past week, each pushing the other step by step, teetering towards open hostility, but withdrawing into safer territory with some polite remark at the last second.

At first it started out as innocent banter-he would ask me to address him as "Mr. Masen", and I would politely decline, saying that it created a level of formality that went against the company culture. In response, he would narrow his eyes and nod, which I assumed was the douchebag way of saying, "Fuck you," in an office setting. I retaliated by gingerly sipping my coffee, sliding my middle finger to the front of the cup in his direction.

The list doesn't end there. He started to undermine my authority at every meeting (and there were too many), routinely finding fault with the smallest details and then take for-fucking-ever to approve of the changes. His approval would also conveniently come days before the deadlines, leaving me to stay later than usual and scramble to work on the final submission.

In short, if I don't stab him with my letter opener by the end of the month, I should be considered a saint.

It's been a week of this ridiculously insulting treatment, and I've finally decided to confront him. Despite my anger and frustration, I can't start yelling and throwing out Satanic verses cursing his ass.

Which is unfortunate, because I bookmarked a local occult store that confidently advertised their voodoo dolls with a "100% satisfaction guarantee".

"Do you have a minute? I just wanted to run something by you on the testing plan," I ask immediately after the latest staff update. A few co-workers glance at us curiously, noticing the interaction. I watch Edward closely and see his jaw clench. Nonetheless, he replies cordially, "Of course. Let's go into my office."

Ha, as if I'd fall for that again. "Actually, I'd prefer if we went to mine," I reply, my eyes narrowing just a bit to indicate that I was still just a bit pissed off over our last encounter.

He has the audacity to briefly smirk before nodding innocently. "After you," he gestures. I walk with my head held high and we maintain a tense silence until the door shuts in my office.

I slowly walk to my desk and cross my arms. "What exactly is your problem with me?" I demand. "I understand that my actions weren't the best introduction to a professional relationship, but you do realize that it's your actions over the last week, that appear juvenile?"

He slowly peruses my office, taking in the empty sandwich wrapper from lunch, the organized mess of papers burying my desk, and the three stress balls next to my laptop. Finally, he focuses his gaze on me.

"If I recall correctly, it was you who kicked me last weekend."

I visibly bristle. "Yes, for which I apologized last week, to you and the Board, apparently."

Edward leans forward and coolly assesses my rigid stance. "Regardless, I haven't done anything that's outside of a supervisor's responsibilities."

I mimic his actions, determined not to let him faze me. "That depends on who you ask. Because from where I'm standing, you have repeatedly questioned my authority and expertise in this area."

He cocks his head and folds his arms."If you have a problem with my leadership, you can bring it up with Carlisle." He pauses strategically. "It seems like you two are close."

For most people, this might be when they snap. If history was any indication, now would be the time for me to kick his ass or slap his perfect face. But this time I was prepared. I knew he would bait me, like he'd done this entire week.

So instead, I allow a wicked smile to slowly creep onto my face with the slightest bit of suggestion, and take a lazy step forward. "We are close." Fucker. "So close that I know he would never doubt me."

His eyes flash. "Are you sure about that?" He asks sharply.

"Are you?" I counter back, tilting my head towards him in a show of defiance.

Even though there's still a few feet separating us, I can almost hear his breathing accelerate to the rhythm of my pulse, and see his pupils dilate. Green and brown are suspended by contention, fed by a slow burn, radiating a simmering heat. Our conversation was a humid, mid-July afternoon and this moment was a slow bead of sweat crawling lazily down smooth, wet skin.

Yes, he's probably one of the most attractive men I'd ever met, but he's also one of the worst co-workers I'd ever had. It doesn't matter how pretty the packaging is when you realize a rotten apple was waiting for you. This is my career on the line. If he doesn't want to work with me and instead rely on underhanded tactics and power plays to make me look incompetent, then I would play.

* * *

"On a scale of one to marrying my backup dancer, how bad is this idea?" I ask Rosalie, not completely sober. It was a Friday night, so sue me. I just told Rosalie my brilliant retaliatory strike, and waited eagerly for her response.

"I mean, you get points for creativity, but are you sure you want to screw with your boss?" She asks, forcing logic and common sense into the conversation per usual.

I scoff. "I'll just go in and rewrite the file myself so no one will ever know it was modified in the first place. Plus, I looked up his resume. He doesn't have any computer science experience or skills. Even if he did, I think I'd still be able to hack circles around him."

She rolls her eyes. "You dated a computer science major. Knowing how to turn off autocorrect and jailbreak Candy Crush does not suddenly make you the Girl with a Dragon Tattoo." She snickers. "More like girl with the weirdest neck tattoo."

I glare. "I was going through a phase, ok? Everyone has those."

"Not when it's to permanently record your love for a fictional character on your body, it's not."

"It's not even that noticeable!"

"Noticeable enough for that one guy to say, 'I wanna get up in your wonderland'."

I groan while she cackles wildly. Before my parents got divorced, my mother would read "Alice in Wonderland" to me every night before bedtime. It was the only pleasant memory and tangible evidence I had of her being a mother. After she remarried when I turned 14, I hardly saw or spoke to her. The last time she visited me was when I first moved to DC, almost six years ago.

You'd think this would bother me or at the very least leave behind some bitter taste in my mouth, but I'd long since thrown away the rose colored glasses I used to view my childhood.

Still, I'm not heartless. So when she died two years ago, I thought of no better tribute than getting a tattoo of the Chesire cat, which was also her favorite character. I had a permanent reminder of the last happy moment she left behind, and thought it a fitting punishment for the grief I didn't feel.

Only one person knew the significance of the tattoo. But then again, Jasper's family dynamics were always more fucked up than mine.

Rosalie points her French fry at me. "This is your reality check. As your best friend, I need you to acknowledge that I tried to convince you to not go through with this. That this is clearly a horrible idea."

I nod solemnly. "You have done your duty, Rosalie."

She stiffens. "Please don't-"

"Ask not what your friend can do for you — ask what you can do for your friend."

"Bella, seriously-"

"Four score and seven years ago-"

"I don't know why I ever told you I majored in History-"

"Give me friendship or give me death!"

Rosalie sips her margarita. "Finished?" She looks unamused, although I could see a hint of a smile peeking from underneath her pursed lips. I narrow my eyes at her and steal a French Fry off of her plate.

"You know, you used to be fun," I accused, chewing loudly just to show off my extra charm. Her nose wrinkles in practiced disgust before she passes over the ketchup bottle.

"Yeah, and I used to have pink streaks in my hair and aspire to be an N'Sync groupie. People change-maybe Edward will too," she advises.

I take a healthy sip of my margarita. "Not likely. Plus, people don't change. We just like to think they do so we can justify our reasons for staying with them. To hope that maybe they'll change for us or because of us."

And when they inevitably leave us, we're left wondering what we could've done differently to make them stay.

Rosalie silently stares at me with an expression that is equally calculating and sympathetic. I swallow the sudden lump of my throat, knowing she won't press for details but almost hoping that she would. I briefly mentioned to her that Jasper was back, and she wisely knew not to push. For now.

She dips her finger in her glass and slowly traces the rim. I shoot her an annoyed glance at her blatant disregard for public hygiene.

"You're really going to do this?" She asks carefully. " I know we've had a few, but this is something that's actually going to happen?"

I smile like a fat cat that just caught a nice, juicy mouse. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say coyly, as I finish my drink. Oh happy hour, you complete me. I lean in and dramatically tip my head forward.

"That fucker's going down."

* * *

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I say brightly. "Thank you for joining us to discuss the roadmap, so to speak, for this project. As you can see from the slides, I'll be covering the basic overview, the background, and the technical approach, including data collection, analysis, and report delivery. Edward will take it from there and go over the management plan, timeline, and needed staff."

Murmurs of agreement come through, while the Devil's Advocate clears his throat before saying, "Thank you, Ms. Swan. If at any point you have any questions, please save them until the end. Let's begin."

He quickly passes me a note that reads, "I prefer Mr. Masen." Restraining the urge to roll my eyes and flip him off, I instead put the note aside, stand up, and launch into my well-rehearsed notes.

I love giving presentations because it's the only time I feel completely in control. Having done weeks and weeks of research, I know exactly what I'm talking about, and can't wait to share the information with the client. I'm every inch the strong, confident, empowered woman I aspired to be after college, and for a second, I feel like nothing can faze me.

But this meeting isn't about my rockstar presenting skills; it's about payback.

"And now, I'm going to hand it over to Edward," I say, intentionally emphasizing his first name ever so subtly, smiling sweetly in response to his suspicious frown.

"Thank you," he answers. "I'd like to turn your attention to the overall timeline for this project-as you can see from Figure 2, we expect to have a meeting with the department on October 5th to discuss the project in detail and share any opportunities for participation. We will then contact-"

"Mr. Masen, I apologize for interrupting, but October 5th is a Saturday," comes the confused tone of the community health director. I bite back a smile, instead doing my best to convey honest confusion in his direction.

He squints. "My apologies," he says hesitantly, as if the verbal act were causing him physical pain. "The correct date would be March 3rd. Next, we will reach out to the technical working group and convene to discuss the proposed members, letters of commitment, and the consulting rates-"

"Actually, we would need to meet with the Board first, to discuss the budget and staffing projections to make sure we're within company expenditure projections," I interrupt, my eyes wide, radiating innocence and a bit of concern.

To his credit, he barely misses a beat, responding, "Of course. As for the specifics of the staffing, we anticipate needing four survey associates, two analysts, three editors-"

I quickly interrupt again. "Those numbers are actually from the previous team meeting from a month ago. The correct numbers should be three survey associates, three analysts, two editors, five teachers, and of course, Edward and myself."

I had been studiously working with my team to gather all the data on the outcomes and the resources that would be needed for the next few years, and I'd been saving it on a shared drive, emailing Edward any updates and getting feedback (re: ignoring feedback). Now, I don't know if he paid close attention to the multiple versions of documents because that was the cornerstone of my plan. You see, he and I both prepared notes for the meeting, which were saved on the same folder. My devious ploy was to upload a previous version of the document as his finalized product, and cover my tracks by deleting the pathway and any cookies that hinted at my presence.

Not exactly War Games, I know.

Yes it sounds pretty lame, but if I had gone into his document a second before the meeting, deleted his notes, and typed in "CARAMEL MACCHIATO MOTHERFUCKER", he would have had (multiple) reasons to fire me. It had to be something that made him look like an ass, but not so obvious that I would be out on mine. Showing up to your first client meeting on your first project with inaccurate information, especially given your father is the CEO, conveyed the perfect blend of arrogance and laziness. That was as good as one nail in the coffin.

And I'm going to pound that nail until it sticks.

Edward reaches up to straighten his tie and clears his throat.

"It appears I have an older version of my notes, gentlemen. I apologize for the inconvenience. However, I believe Ms. Swan should have access to the most recent copy."

Prepared to take over, I simply switch to my notes with the correct dates and accurate information and say, "Of course. Let's continue."

As predicted, I smoothly carry the rest of the meeting, while Edward sits there the entire time, flaccid and useless. It isn't until we switch over to the financial aspects of the project that I see his spine straighten and his confidence renewed.

After all, it's not like anyone would go in and tamper with his slides, right?

"Lastly, the communications team assembled a video for outreach," he finishes. He clicks on the link and I dig my nails into my thighs to make sure I don't start laughing hysterically. I dim the lights and we hear some New Age, yoga studio-esque music from the speakers, followed by the image of a young woman walking through a meadow.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she reassures, petting a cartoon duck in the process. "Getting help will only make you a stronger man."

I watch with almost psychotic satisfaction as Edward's eyes start to widen to the size of bowling balls. His entire body goes slack, as if he's in shock.

Which is perfect, because that means the video keeps playing.

The brunette smiles demurely into the camera. "Erectile dysfunction affects ⅓ of sexually active men, so you're not the only one. But you don't have to be-there is a solution. Erozapine is a tablet designed to treat ED and BPH, and it's the first non-addictive drug of its kind. Start living the life you deserve." A seagull flies overhead, since she's now apparently transported to a beach. "Become the man you were with Erozapine."

The last few chimes echo through the room, and I hear an awkward cough on the line.

I decide to break the horribly thin ice. "Does anyone have any questions-related to the project?"

There are some murmurs over the phone before someone confirms there are no questions at this time, so I thank them and numbly turn off the phone.

One. Two. Three. Four.

We both sit there like statues, as worry and dread start to creep up my spine for the first time. Have I gone too far? Am I the jackass in this scenario?

Either way, it's time to get the fuck out of here.

"Well, aside from that technical hiccup, I think that went rather well. I'll have the meeting notes to you this afternoon," I say, proud that there was barely a tremor in my voice. Barely.

He nods, bright green eyes boring into my skull.

I stand and make my exit, a bit confused about what's happening. Is he letting me off the hook? Is this his way of saying, "touché"?

My fingers gingerly wrap around the handle of the door-

"Wait."

I slowly take a deep breath and turn around. He continues his imitation of a statue, the sharpness of the green become more focused as he saunters up to me. Unlike confrontations in the past, he advances so close this time that I back up against the wall. Refusing to be intimidated by his height, I lift my head and force myself to stretch to every inch of my respectable 5'5.

Weirdly enough, he doesn't seem pissed off. He barely seems bothered by my stunt. In fact, he leans in even closer by placing his arm right next to my head. I search his eyes for any kind of emotion, but they remain as ambiguous as ever.

"I think there's been a mistake," he starts lowly, his eyes darkening. I try to ignore the spicy scent of his aftershave. "You seem to think you have the upper hand. Let me assure you that's not true."

"I don't know what you're talking about. If you're accusing me of something inappropriate, then I hope you have proof."

His mouth twitches, as if he were about to smile but caught it just in time. "No, and I don't think I'll be able to find anything," he guesses. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I'm your superior."

Son of a-my eyes flash at the last word. "Is that all?" I ask stonily, staring at the smooth column of his throat.

I feel his body tense, and I absently note the restrained power underneath like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment. For a second, I allow myself to appreciate the pretty package: the GQ styled copper hair, the subtle five o'clock shadow that straddles the line between "professional" and "I just filmed a tequila commercial", the classic Roman nose, and the unfairly full lips.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

I quickly regain what sense I have left and meet his gaze head-on, waiting for his response.

He leans in a few centimeters more and I practically feel his breath on my neck. Instead of backing away, or even stupider-closing the gap-I simply raise an eyebrow.

He smirks and concludes, "For now."

Nodding sharply, I turn around and open the door. Without looking back, I say, "By the way, _Mr. Masen_ , I prefer _Dr. Swan_."

If there's one thing I do exceptionally well, it's getting in the last word.


	8. The Reunion Part I

Happy Thursday to us all! I'm practically squealing because this has been my favorite chapter to write that's set in the present, and I hope you guys will tell me what you think! I'm not excusing Jasper, particularly because I was once in Bella's position, and I don't expect sympathy. But I hope he's interesting enough not to be labeled as just a jerk or bad guy. Anyway-enjoy! :D

The Reunion Part I

Jasper

I stand up and shake hands with the senator, before making my exit from the two hour briefing on the agricultural bill. Luckily, the meeting went relatively smoothly and it looked like the bill would be on the floor of the House soon. A few years ago, I would have been ecstatic to have even been in the room discussing any bill, but now there was just the faint satisfaction that I had earned my keep.

And now I get to go home, get drunk, and pass out. Perfect.

Ignoring the imminent self-flagellation I was clearly hurling towards, I quickly retreat to my office and pack everything up for the week. Just as I'm about to decide which bar to head to, my phone vibrates.

I groan, almost afraid to see who's texted me this time. I had already confirmed the holiday plans with my mother, called my dad to check in and let him know of the plans, and chatted with some old college friends about meeting up in the next week or two.

My pulse accelerates slightly at the thought of Alice texting me, and I feel dread start to pool in my stomach. I glance at the screen and feel myself sit down when I realize who it is.

It's Bella.

Where to begin with Bella Swan?

It's almost cliché how we met-I had just come from a disastrous dinner with Alice, after hearing about her happy life with her new shiny lawyer boyfriend, and I was looking to drown my sorrows.

As I downed my glass of bourbon, neat, I spotted her sitting alone at the bar. Her dark brown hair was piled up into a neat bun over her head, eyes fixed on her glass of wine. She was wearing a modest outfit-red sweater with jeans, but I remember how well they molded to her figure.

I stared at her like a creep in the corner while she frowned and checked her phone, impatiently tapping her finger on the bar table. For a brief, crazy second, I considered approaching her and charming her, using flirtation to help compartmentalize and forget.

But even I knew I'd be doing her a favor by staying away.

Curiously, I glanced up again to catch another glimpse of her, before I heard someone clear their throat from behind me. I froze and slowly turned around, a sheepish grin on my face.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, do I know you? Because if I don't, then you might want to stop leering. Seriously, the brooding in the corner thing? Only hot in romance novels."

I raised my eyebrows. Well that escalated quickly.

A bit tipsy and a lot intrigued, I flashed an innocent smile and replied, "I apologize. You don't know me, but you could and you should."

She rolled her eyes.

"Really? That's your line? You are really lucky you're decent looking." I perked up at this, but she simply held a hand up. "I'm stating a fact, not stroking your ego...or other things." This time I couldn't help but laugh.

She was certainly...different, that was obvious. Whether that was good or bad for me remained to be seen.

"So, based on your creepy close observation of me, what have you learned?" She asked airily, taking a seat next to me. I blinked, a bit surprised at her sudden change in attitude. She ran a hand over her bangs, staring expectantly at me.

I cleared my throat. "You're waiting for someone, that much is obvious. Your outfit is well put together but doesn't draw too much attention, which means you want to look nice but not advertise that you're here for a one night stand. I'm gonna go with-first date, met online."

Most women would have been impressed at my observational skills, or at the very least shocked. But she just knocked back her glass of wine, wiped her mouth demurely, and smirked while keeping her eyes steady on mine.

"Yes, yes, and yes on all accounts. Congratulations. He didn't show up, though, and now you've won the pleasure of my company." She signaled the bartender and ordered another drink.

I didn't even try to fight the genuinely amused smile that made its way onto my face. I didn't know where the night was headed, but for the first time in months, I felt like a man talking to an attractive, interesting woman without any baggage attached.

"Put it on my tab," I told the bartender, and she frowned at me. "I'm not looking for anything casual," she warned.

I held up my hand, and she startled a bit at the old fashioned gesture, before cautiously shaking it with hers.

"Jasper," I introduced lowly.

"Bella," she replied confusedly, as if she wasn't sure what was happening. "So, are you going to tell me why you look like the human version of Eeyore?"

I answered her question with a bitter smile of my own. "How much time do you have?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Well, an hour if you're pretty cool. A half-hour if you're tolerable. And five seconds if you're a total weirdo."

I chuckled. "Fair enough. So what can I say in the next five seconds to convince you I'm not a total weirdo? I take it the staring from afar thing and cheesy line didn't help."

Her drink arrived and she took a small sip. It's a nice wine, pretty popular among women. But instead of enjoying the taste or even pretending to tolerate it, she made a disgusted face and stuck her tongue out.

Is this girl for real?

"Sorry," she grimaced. "I know that's the not the appropriate reaction to a nice wine. But to be honest with you, I kind of hate the taste of wine. It's like juice that's gone bad. But how else does one build street cred in D.C.?"

Hmmmm. I watched her take another sip, as if the second time would magically improve. She winced, and I decided to go for broke. I waved the bartender over. "Hey, man, how are you? Can I get a glass of the 2012 Sangiovese? Thanks, I appreciate it."

I raised my glass to her. "You are about to fall in love. This is a milestone-finding a wine that you enjoy." She finally laughed. "Bring it on."

As I predicted, she cursed at the first sip. "Damn, that's smooth," she commented, taking another healthier sip and nodding towards me in recognition. "Nicely done."

I smirked. "Well, I had to make the five seconds count. Does this earn me more time?"

She placed the wine next to her and crossed her legs, making herself comfortable. "For now. So, Jasper-interesting name, by the way-where are you from?"

We spent the rest of the hour chatting about our backgrounds, and I discovered she grew up in Arizona before moving to Washington for high school, and attending Boston University for college. Funnily enough, I grew up outside of Boston and had gone to college in Seattle. We both reminisced over the weather, tourist traps, and local hot spots. We excitedly chatted about our college adventures and bemoaned the not so smooth transition into adulthood. By the end of the hour, I had realized that not only did we share several interests, hobbies, and opinions, but I hadn't thought about Alice at all.

And while I struggled with contacting her when I first walked into the bar, I then had absolutely no inclination to do so.

The conversation slowly lulled to a comfortable pause, and Bella pursed her lips and eyed me, almost cautiously. "So, can I now ask why you personified Eeyore when I walked over?"

I snorted. "I don't know if we have enough time for that story."

Her eyes briefly softened with sympathy, and I cursed inwardly. Why couldn't I just flirt with her like any other healthy male and stop moping around? Why was I still acting like a goddamned heartbroken teenager? Why couldn't I just be happy for-

Bella slammed her credit card down and stood up, catching the bartender's attention. "Alright, come on," she announced. I leaned back, trying to figure out what she was doing.

Her eyes glinted with challenge and determination. "Look, we're both clearly having a shitty night, when we should be enjoying this awesome city. So I think we should go somewhere where we can do that. You in?"

She's only had two glasses of wine, but there's a slight sway on her feet, so I know she's tipsy but not drunk. I had lived in D.C. for almost a year and hadn't even been to any of the museums or memorials. Instead, I buried myself with work and brooded over circumstances I couldn't change, and tried to convince people of truths I was no longer sure about.

Basically, I was fucking exhausted.

Mind made up, I grabbed my phone to call the uber. "Five minutes," I said, a twinge of excitement ricocheting through my bones. "Where exactly did you have in mind?"

She grinned brightly. "A place even better than Oprah's couch."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we both sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. "I love it here," she said serenely. "It's cliche as hell, but I don't care. This is the best spot in D.C. You just can't help but feel...peaceful." She turned her face toward me, and I remember being struck by how the moonlight highlighted her brown eyes, cheekbones, and full bottom lip.

She wasn't a girl that caused your head to turn twice upon the first glance, with her brown hair, brown eyes, and petite figure. But I was starting to realize that she was the kind of girl that made you wonder why you never bothered to look closer in the first place.

Without any hesitation, she quietly said, "I know I'm just a stranger that you met, but I hope this place brings you a little bit of peace from whatever's bothering you."

She turned her face away, but I kept staring.

I didn't know why this whimsical, spontaneous girl had taken me to her favorite spot to make me feel better. I didn't know what she wanted, if anything, from me. I didn't know how I felt about being here with her, hours after hearing how happy Alice was in her new life.

But I also didn't care. Because I knew this would be the closest I would get to feeling peaceful.

"Thank you," I said softly. I watched my hand gently turn her head to mine, trembling briefly, before I lowered my face to hers. She didn't respond for a moment, until I felt her lips gently caress mine, nervous yet demanding. An interesting and intoxicating contradiction.

It was a moment of genuine gratitude and we both knew the haze of lust was absent when we pulled away.

She cocked her head and assessed me, probably trying to figure out what my game was or what I wanted.

"I want to forget," I answered, providing no more information.

For a second, I saw the brief return of the sympathy I received from her at the bar. But it was also filled with flickers of tenderness, of genuine caring, and while I didn't know what I wanted from her, I allowed myself to appreciate this foreign protection. With her sarcastic and confident exterior, I got the inkling that she didn't let herself get close to people very often, and I relaxed even more at the assumption.

She smirked, wiping all traces of the previous expression that I had been drawn to. "What's her name?" she asks nonchalantly.

Yes, I wanted to forget, and it looked like she was on the same page.

It would be the first and last time that was ever the case.

* * *

Returning to the present, I glance around the sports bar, trying to scrounge up any enthusiasm for the drunken antics of the college kids, the earsplitting screams of the bachelorettes, and the hungry, desperate looks of the bachelors.

I guess some things never change.

I take a deep breath, still a bit disbelieving that I'm here right now and that she replied to my text (albeit a week later). The initial shock of her somewhat conciliatory response ("Sure, let's meet up") quickly gave way to confusion and wariness, but I stopped myself from overthinking and texted back a time and place.

Although I've been able to keep that promise, I suddenly felt uncomfortable for the night ahead; I knew she wasn't the type of person to cause a scene in public, but I didn't want to be on the end of her barely restrained anger for the next hour or two. We had been many things, but passive-agressive had never been one of them.

As for my expectations of the night, I had decided against bringing up any part of the past, even if it meant feeling like a herd of elephants would be in the room.

I'm not sure where this would lead, or if we could be friends again, but we both trusted and cared for each other two years ago and it seems like a waste if we didn't try to at least attempt to repair what had been damaged.

Plus, what exactly do I have to lose?

I order a gin and tonic from the bar and try to remember if I called the auto shop to confirm the pick-up for tomorrow. For the most part, I fit the straight-laced, Hill staffer stereotype to a T (although I owned nicer suits-so sue me, I liked Armani), but there was something I could never resist: speed.

The only time I came close to being thrown in jail was when I raced down Highway 293 back home in Boston in a Ferrari that I had borrowed. And by borrowed, I mean stole. From a neighbor.

Ah, youth.

Anyway, aside from the typical male vices (a nice whiskey, strippers, some kind of illicit drug that you try a few times and then realize jail isn't attractive on a resume), I couldn't resist the adrenaline rush I got from my bike.

And no, I don't mean the pathetic eco-friendly red pieces of scrap metal that assault multiple street corners in D.C.; I'm talking about my Ducati Panigale 1199R. It was my one extravagant purchase during grad school, although I'd be lying if I said it had nothing to do with wanting to see the look on my mother's face.

While my stepfather had just rolled his eyes, indifference his main parenting technique, my mother had lost her composure and threatened to cut me off completely.

And she thought she didn't have any comedic talent. I thought her bit had been hilarious.

Plus, the differences between yelling at an eight year old for using the guest bathroom and a 28 year old for buying a fast bike with his inheritance were subtle, but there, which is what really mattered.

Afterwards, like almost every argument we'd ever had, my mother came to me and expressed her remorse and reiterated her position that everything she'd ever done was to "make me happy".

Yeah, tell that to your second husband who bashed my head in with a brick.

Childhood traumas aside (a good mindset to have when meeting up with a friend no doubt), I take a generous gulp of my drink before I see a flash of red on my left. I pivot around and automatically flash a crooked smile, trying to disarm any doubts or anxiety she might have.

She smiles back coolly, probably not sharing my intent, and asks, "What're you drinking?"

"A scotch on the rocks," I reply.

She simply rolls her eyes. "So poison. Awesome. I'll have a real drink-Long Island Iced Tea, please."

I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows. "Rough day? Happy Friday, by the way."

She crosses her legs, and I note idly how the fabric slides up her thigh. She's always had a slim figure, but I detect the subtle muscle tone displayed by the strapless sundress. I once told her I liked pastel colors on women, and in response, she bought a black dress, a dark blue dress, and a scarlet red dress the week after. "What you like doesn't concern me," she had said snarkily. "I'll dress however I like."

"Happy Friday," she acknowledges, referencing the same words she would text me at the end of every workweek. "My week was...interesting. Not so much bad, just strange." She frowns a bit at this, and I wonder if I should pry or just leave it alone.

It's a good sign that we can banter somewhat, but it still feels like we're in a weird place. By not trying to make things awkward, we resort to faking nonchalance so dutifully that it ironically hinted at our grasping for straws, at our desperation to find some kind of footing. Years earlier, we could sit in silence filled with contentment, whereas now everything just feels coated with an uncomfortable residue.

She turns towards me once she gets her drink and takes a sip. "So, what made you want to reach out?" She asks, and I realize we've skipped the aimless small talk of the evening. When we first met, half of our conversations consisted of jokes, harmless flirtation, and discussion of current events. We talked about Putin, asked how work was going, and confided over what crazy shit our families had dragged us into again.

I clear my throat and try to look earnest. "It's been two years. I wanted to see you." I try to keep my tone even, but I'm sure she can hear the uncertainty underneath. "How have you been?"

She smiles, but it's devoid of any emotion. Ironically, I understood her exact position. It's not easy to sit across from the table, engaging in conversation with the person who broke your heart. I want to ask her why she accepted if she's only going to keep her distance, but it's a dick move, especially this early in the evening.

"I've been fine," she replies robotically. "How's the new job?"

"It's...great. Everything's great. Congress is-"

"Great?" She finishes. Though her rigid posture doesn't change, I hear an echo of the sarcastic wit that used to punctuate her sentences, and see a brief flare of amusement in her eyes.

I feel my breathing slow and my body relax a bit.

"To be honest, I'm not sure why exactly I'm back here," I confess. "I love politics, and I'm grateful to have my job and work in one of the most powerful organizations in the world, but-I don't know. It's not the same."

She hums. "Yeah, a lot of things can happen in two years." This time, the edge in her voice returns with a vengeance.

Here we go. Granted, I don't know if I'm more surprised that it took this long to reach a moment of contention, or just disappointed. When I texted her, I thought we might be able to get past what had happened and start over.

For the first time since seeing her, I wonder if I've been completely wrong.

After a couple of seconds of more awkward silence, Bella suddenly deflates. She runs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit of hers, and studies me, resigned.

"Look, I don't want to fight with you, I really don't." Could've fooled me.

At my incredulous expression, she lets out a small, genuine laugh, and I'm warmed by the sound. "I'm willing to be civil. So let's start over-how is your job different from campaigning?"

I suspect it's not under the most voluntary of circumstances, and I know her well enough to sense that she was still conflicted over seeing me, but I take the opening and run with it.

"I appreciate that. Although for the record, I certainly wouldn't blame you. But my job's good. It's a bit more slow-paced than the campaign trail, but…"

And off we go. By the time we've both had a few drinks, everything almost feels back to normal, as if we both conveniently blacked out the last time we'd spoke at the Lincoln Memorial.

A shiver runs through me and she gives an excited jolt, much like she used to whenever she remembered something amusing or came up with an idea that she would later pretend to regret for propriety's sake, but secretly revel in her rebelliousness. I, of course, would not so secretly suggest to her that she was a complete deviant, which she would deny but then smile as if some secret goal had been accomplished.

I'm not sure how I still remembered these little tics, other than the obvious cliched explanation that it was like "riding a bike", although I wish I knew where I was going.

She laughs after hearing about my brunch with Jake. "Oh man, I can't believe he's on his third kid. I mean, financially he's secure, but isn't this the same guy who got into a fight with an ex-IRA member? At an Irish bar?"

I can't help but lose it with her, and we both reminisce over the New Year's celebration (fiasco) of 2013. "Yeah, he's grown-up these past few years. Well, in some ways. He still talks about getting a keg and tapping it, although I'm pretty sure Leah would be out the door if that ever happened."

She snickers. "Probably into Mike Newton's arms."

We both smile a bit wistfully before finishing our drinks and a sense of unexpected satisfaction drapes over me as I recall how many of my friends she's met.

"So…" she starts. I raise an eyebrow and cock my head. She glances at something behind me and asks breezily, "Have you been dating?"

I snort into my drink. "With my schedule? I'm not exactly a catch at the moment. How about you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Dating? Yes. Happily? No. Same old single bullshit," she snarks. For a brief second, I see her "I'm an empowered woman who don't need no man" armor crack, and I feel my chest tighten.

I clear my throat. "Amen to that," I say weakly, unable to contribute to this topic more than I already have.

She runs her fingers through her hair again and I notice how the light bounces off her golden honey-colored hair, almost two shades lighter than her previous hair color. She checks her phone and shoots me an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry, this has been...great, but I actually have to meet up with a friend tomorrow morning, so I should get going."

I nod and stand up next to her, as we walk towards the direction of the exit. It's still a decent night, with only a slight breeze that signals the imminent chilly weather.

In spite of this, Bella shivers and I smile. "Still need your own portable space heater, huh?" I joke, referencing the way I used to give her shit for being cold even when it was sunny and sub-tropical.

She shrugs. "I guess I'm just extra sensitive." We walk towards the metro station together silently, both of us trying to process the night.

I've heard from countless women that the one complaint they have about men (outside of bed) is that they never notice things or pay enough attention. "I don't need grand gestures," you all say. "I'd just like a little more proof that you care and you're thinking about me."

Well aside from the obvious assholes and commitaphobes, I think I can speak on behalf of the rest of us idiots when I say that we do notice things about you.

We notice when you're upset (maybe because you had a fight with your mom), when you're angry (Debbie from work was being a nosy bitch again), and when you're shocked (Scandal got canceled?!).

We notice when you're annoyed (very much so), when you're excited, and when you're jumping up and down on the furniture, ecstatic.

We notice when you're in pain, when you're frustrated, and when you're devastated beyond belief.

We notice these things-but we might not do or say anything.

Contrary to Nicholas Sparks novels, men are unaware of the magic combination of words to make you feel instantly better or feel instantly loved. We don't know if it's our place to take sides in an argument with your family or friends, and we don't know if it's a good idea to point out your bad ideas. We don't know what to do when you're upset and crying, and most importantly-

We don't know that we have the ability to break your heart.

Bella and I stop in front of the escalators, but instead of feeling like the end of a reunion, it feels like the end. A churning starts in my stomach, but I have no idea what to do or say. So I watch her chew nervously on her lower lip.

She takes a deep breath and smiles up at me, all wide-eyed and earnest. "Well, this went better than I thought it would," she says. "I'll see you around." Her expression turns to one of wistfulness, as if she has the same feeling that this might be it.

After almost four years of friendship, taking out the past two years, this was how we might end.

She steps in for a hug and I cautiously embrace her, getting a whiff of her perfume. Nothing had changed-I still didn't want to be in a relationship, but I wanted her as a friend.

I close my eyes for a brief second, and I recall the last time we spoke.

" _I have feelings for you," she said, cautiously watching me. I raised my eyebrows and felt the bottom of my stomach drop out._

" _W-what?" I stammered, thinking that I may have misunderstood. She shrunk a bit, not encouraged by my reaction, but continued. "I have feelings for you; romantic feelings. And I'm just wondering, given everything that's happened in the past few months, if you...if you, might feel something. For me. Too."_

 _She chewed on her bottom lip, gaze steady on mine, radiating anxiety._

 _Oh fuck, I thought. This was going to be brutal._

" _I can't," I replied softly. "I don't-honestly, I really like you, Bella. You're funny, sweet, smart, and beautiful, but I'm just-I don't think I can be with you. I'm so sorry." I watched her stiffen and then nod robotically._

" _Right," she said. "Wow. Um, ok. I think-I think I should go."_

 _I looked at her helplessly, torn between offering more half-assed explanations and apologizing. Before she turns around, I catch a glimpse of her bottom lip trembling, and I wanted to hurt myself._

 _I did this to her. I made the strongest, most confident woman I knew, doubt herself._

Bella pulls away, and I clear my throat, trying to shake myself awake. She smiles one last time at me, and I bring myself to reciprocate. "I'm glad we did this. I really missed you."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her smile drops and her eyes dim. I wonder if I shouldn't have been this honest, but it felt wrong to end such a great night on fake pleasantries that I couldn't help myself. We had been best friends for almost four years, until that night.

She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head, startling me.

When she bring her eyes to mine, I see no signs of the warmth that existed a few seconds ago. There isn't even the aloofness from the beginning of the evening. She simply looks resigned, not so much with wary acceptance, but muted surrender.

"I wish I could believe you," she says quietly. "Goodbye, Jasper."

I watch her turn around and slowly disappear into the station, while I clench and unclench my fist.

I deserve her last shot, but I'm at a loss over what to do.

The night progressed so well, giving me hope we could start over, but now it feels like we're both right back where we were two years ago.

If I were a Nice Guy, one she truly deserved, I would race down to the station before she got on the train and launch into a passionate speech.

"I'm an idiot," I would start. "These past few years have been miserable without you in my life in some capacity, and I wish I had reached out. I wish I had apologized the night of the Lincoln Memorial.

Basically, I wish I had tried with you. Because as much as I don't believe in blissful relationships and all that bullshit anymore, I wish I did for you."

But like I said, I'm not that guy.


	9. The River in Egypt

Happy Sunday, guys! I can't believe I haven't mentioned this before, but A Different Forest and Teh Lemonade Stand included my story on their sites! SunflowerFran also posted on her FB; many thanks, and much appreciated for your shout-outs!

Some of you may be glad to hear that I've reworked my outline, and decided to write the second half of the story from Edward's POV. While I find Jasper challenging and interesting to write, I see that from the reader's perspective, it doesn't make sense to just present his POV. So basically, less Jasper and more Edward in the future! Yay :)

Ooh also, song recs: No One's Here to Sleep-Naughty Boy ft. Bastille; Assassin's Tango-John Powell

The River in Egypt

Bella POV

 **Seven years ago**

" _First kiss?"_

" _Abigail Dunis. I was nine and she was twelve. Kind of a cougar."_

" _Someone was popular," I teased, my hair tickling his shoulder._

" _What can I say? All the ladies were crazy for my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox." He winked. "I got the goods. And the dimples."_

 _I snorted and poked his stomach. "Wow. Well, I was more into Disney Princesses, so you wouldn't have impressed me."_

 _He blinked slowly and a lazy grin appeared. "Is that so," he drawled, sending shivers up my spine. "And what, Miss Bella, would have caught your eye?"_

 _I smirked. "Big balls. My favorite were the blue ones."_

 _He laughed. "I'm sure yours were the biggest," he teased. A breeze swept through the grass of the Mall, and I gently traced circles in the ground, basking in the luxurious sunshine and the company._

 _For the first time coming to the scary big city of D.C., I had made a friend. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to be in a relationship. All the times in the past when I laughed at my friends' silly crushes, their obsessive behaviors-finally, the first licks of giddiness had appeared and with it, the possibility of more._

 _The lazy summer afternoon, surprisingly devoid of humidity, settled comfortably on my skin. My eyes started to droop, the faint sounds of children playing and unrelenting traffic serving as an urban lullaby._

" _Do you think people change?"_

 _At first, I didn't acknowledge him. Humor could diffuse the imminent severity of the conversation, but I decided on a more neutral response. "Of course. Maybe not in the way you want them to, but I believe there's always a chance."_

 _He stared out at the Washington monument, his eyes scanning methodically, as if counting each brick._

" _Yeah," he acknowledged absently, as his fingers curled into the grass. "I don't know. I used to think so, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe we believe it so we don't have to face something we're not prepared to accept."_

 _Faint warning bells rang in my head. What happened to the light-hearted, flirty atmosphere a second ago? Why did it suddenly feel like this was now a test, and if I answered incorrectly, it would somehow be my fault?_

 _I sat up and cleared my throat, preparing myself the way a tightrope walker does when taking another step._

 _Set the heel down, find your balance._

" _Maybe," I answered. Steady. "But does it matter? How do you know if they're the ones who've changed, or if you're the one who's different? Maybe for the better. You can't be solely responsible for people's actions or feelings. They will do and feel the way they want to. You just need to figure out if you care enough to be there for them."_

 _Good. Now the other foot._

 _Jasper's dark blue eyes panned over to me, and I recognized the familiar haunted look. He was thinking of Alice, and not for the first time, the sour taste of jealousy burned through the usual empathy and pity._

 _Stop. Don't move, and don't look down._

 _Gradually, flickers of gratitude and surprise appeared as he smiled._

 _Swing forward, over and up._

" _You know, you're not like anyone else I've met since moving here," he said softly._

 _Land carefully, heel to toe. Success._

 _My pulse accelerated as relief and tenderness unfurled inside my chest. I grinned cockily and punched his arm, laughing off his praise, trying to keep things light. "Well, of course. Should I be insulted that you've just realized this?"_

 _Having regained my balance, the familiar mask of confidence and flirtation secured itself once more, offering protection from disappointment and unrealistic expectations even as glimpses of rooftop happy hours, cafe afternoons, and late night strolls along the Mall flashed by furiously._

 _He just went through a bad breakup, I remind myself. He said he's not ready for anything serious._

 _Do not fall._

 _He ducked his head, a soft smile on his lips, and I locked away the moment even as I warned myself to keep my distance._

 _Jasper lifted himself up to his feet, brushing off the dirt and grass that stuck to his jeans. "So, shall we head over to Lucky's?"_

 _I stood too and smirked, running my hand through my hair, trying to ignore the way his eyes traced over the motion._

" _Are you ready for me to kick your ass at pool?" I taunted, my hands on my hips._

 _He rolled his eyes and laughed. "Bring it on, Swan."_

 _You are fine. Everything is fine. And throughout the rest of the night, the gravity of the previous conversation lifted with each joke, each drink, and each shared laugh between us._

 _It's only in the morning that I realize I remain suspended, never touching the ground._

We're socially conditioned to organize everything into a beginning, middle, and end. Even when we might not care about what happens in the future, or force ourselves not to care, we strive for conclusion and for closure.

That, I tell myself, was why I agreed to see Jasper again.

It's been two years, and though I didn't spend every minute of it pining after him, I can't deny that I had devoted countless hours to imagining our reunion. The possibilities ranged from beating him up, bursting into tears, demanding explanations, introducing him to a new boyfriend, and coolly dismissing him.

I had settled on the last approach, but purposefully replaced my old mask of cocky bullshit with icy control. Yet even as I allowed myself the briefest sense of satisfaction at his nervousness and his guilt, it didn't compare to my overall weariness of the situation. My anger had collapsed under the weight of time while the hurt eroded much more slowly, until all that's left are particles too ground down to be visible.

Irritating? Sure. Able to cause significant damage? Not anymore.

The truth was, I didn't care if he claimed responsibility, because I had claimed mine. We owed each other nothing, and while I'm not sure if he's changed, I was simply tired-of hating him, of hating myself, of being bitter about relationships and dating. I wasn't naive enough to believe I'd completely healed, but I wasn't cynical enough to believe I no longer could. If attempting to be on civil terms with Jasper finally closed the wound, then I had to at least consider it.

With that bittersweet blessing, I dropped the Ice Queen act and attempted to begin again.

Timing and chemistry. We had never mastered the first, but we almost made up for it by effortlessly cultivating the second. Still, it was frightening how easily we fell into our usual tennis match banter at dinner. So much so that before the end, I couldn't help but think that this was more satisfying than the number of conclusions I wished I'd gotten before he left.

Yes, Jasper and I had too much history that was impossible to ignore. There were too many secrets shared, too many critical moments witnessed, too much comforting and understanding and what I briefly thought was loving, that existed between us.

But I also remember how each fleeting moment of happiness, with its initial warmth, only left me colder. And each repeated attempt to become closer to the flame just coated me with ash. Until one day, I couldn't recognize myself anymore.

So when he told me that he missed me, I could only register, with striking clarity, why this was complete and utter bullshit.

Fact: He left for two years after I told him I had feelings for him.

Fact: He didn't reach out afterwards or explain why he left.

Fact: I cried my eyes out for weeks afterwards, mourning our friendship and my rejection.

Conclusion: I realized how devastating love could be and how easy it was to completely lose myself.

Exhausted by the mental gymnastics, I climb into bed and ponder my options. Despite my parting words, I wonder if we can be civil, and whether that's key to jettisoning my remaining baggage. But I'd been down this exact path before and I know it's equally possible I'm just setting myself up for something I should have seen coming ten thousand miles away.

As much as I want to completely move on, it's truly easier said than done.

I know what you're thinking-in fact, I can see it. You're rolling your eyes with a frown on your face, pitying me because I'm falling into the typical "secretly still not over her ex" trap. Maybe you're shaking your head at me, waiting with an "I told you so" ready for when it happens. The moment we'll get close-maybe even kiss or fuck under emotionally vulnerable but weirdly romantic circumstances.

Well, guess what?

I won't tell you that you're wrong. Because if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that words never matter. Actions do.

And that's why, at 3 AM in the morning, I decide against talking to Jasper. Because if it takes me this long to decide what to do about his return, then I couldn't let him back in again. At least not right now.

* * *

It's been two weeks since Edward's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad because He Can't Get Hard Day. Yet there had been no retaliation, and it seemed a temporary truce had been achieved. You'd think that like any functional adult, this would please me and force me to go back to work.

I'm sure you're smarter than that.

No, this simply put me on edge, and each passing day just increased my anxiety that he was going to do something big, like career-ending big.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick-

I closed my eyes and groaned softly, rubbing my temples. Friday afternoons were the worst, in my opinion, because I could barely concentrate on anything except meeting up with Emmett and Rosalie.

Emmett worked as a massage therapist for a few high profile clients, including politicians and think tank executives, and had just gotten back from a week long trip with a congressman who was on the campaign trail.

He was also my personal trainer, and I knew he would be merciless tomorrow morning, since I completely ignored his advice to keep up with my regimen and instead only did crunches every time I reached up to dip my chip in the salsa I balanced between my thighs.

Sometimes I don't know how I manage to write my own name, much less feed myself.

Annnnnd time to go. I quickly log in my hours and start packing up, wondering if I should leave my purse in the office and just snag my wallet. Decisions, dec-

Knock, knock.

I look up, startled, and do a double take when I see Mr. Cialis himself at the door. Even though it's casual Friday, the man is still wearing a navy suit with his standard black loafers. This totally matches my strapless sundress and fuzzy cardigan I had been wearing earlier to convey some professional decorum.

He clears his throat. "Got a minute?"

I nod slowly, sitting back down in my chair and making a gesture for him to sit. He does so reluctantly, and even though he's initiating contact, it feels like we both have no idea what's about to happen.

Edward clears his throat again, before quietly saying, "I want to formally apologize to you-I've been unprofessional and shouldn't have made that insensitive comment in the coffee shop. You actually looked pretty good in a grungy, rebellious way."

Or, you know, that version would have been way better.

"I'd like to offer a truce." He stares at me unblinkingly while I attempt to mask my shock.

THISISATRAPTHISISATRAP. "Really?" I ask, trying to work some bemusement into my voice. "And what exactly does that entail?"

He cracks a small smile even as his jaw clenches. "It means I will back off if you agree to stop interfering in my work as well," he responds evenly, studying my reaction.

The obvious follow-up question-why is he proposing this now? I doubt my prank spurred this on or he had grown a conscience overnight. There's a chance Carl might have stepped in and intervened, or perhaps this was just an elaborate form of revenge.

At the same time, if this was genuine, then I almost have an ounce of respect for him. News of the ErecTed Talk disseminated faster than gossip over Taylor Swift's latest relationship (seriously, Tom Hiddleston?), but neither he nor Carl had pointed any fingers (at me). There were no passive aggressive comments, no official disciplinary actions, and no drama.

Granted, Carl had pulled me aside two days after said incident to give me a reality check. "Alright, you've both gotten decent shots in," he observed. "I think this is where I step in and ruin the fun."

"Fun" was certainly debatable, but Carl had a point. And as much as I didn't want to, I also recognized Edward's dilemma-even though he had a personal connection to the company and impressive credentials, he had yet to establish any kind of trust or credibility. This was his chance to prove himself as more than the boss's son.

Even if it meant working with me.

For the first time since we met, I feel the nervous ball of energy, resentment, and prejudice slowly start to dissipate. I was still curious of why he left his previous position and came to work for his father, but it didn't matter.

He wanted to prove himself at IHS, and I wanted to prove, mainly to myself, that I could let things go.

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Rosalie smugly saying, "I told you so."

I smile-a real one-and stick my hand out. "I appreciate you coming to me about this, and I completely agree. Fighting each other, while amusing, is unproductive and risky. Let's start over and actually work with each other, not against each other."

Well, that's what I should have said.

Instead, I lean back and nod. "I agree that we should stop getting in each other's way, but I'm still unconvinced of how well we can work together. I know you're not supposed to be best friends with your co-workers, but honestly, I still think you're kind of a jerk."

When I was six, a boy asked me if I knew what cooties were. My response? I just simply stared at him until he walked away. Middle school and high school were hell because I had no idea how to talk to people.

It wasn't until I got to college that I figured it out and slowly began to accumulate friends and a social group. I found that I had a great sense of humor, but it could be sharp and cut deep if I wasn't careful.

Over time, I found the balance between "funny" and "asshole" to avoid being so blunt and direct with others. However, occasionally an inappropriate remark would burst forth without any warning, leaving a trail of awkward silence in its wake.

This, unfortunately, was one of those times.

He blinks twice, registering my brutal honesty. "You think I'm a jerk," he repeats. "This is because of that morning in the coffee shop, isn't it?"

Well, kind of. Technically, that was what started it all. There wasn't an accusing or blaming edge in his tone, so I decide to go on.

"Yes," I answer tersely. "I know I looked out of place, but no one deserves to be treated like that. Especially not one who was wearing heels and felt severely hungover."

Fuck. That last part was not supposed to be said aloud. Maybe that's why I'm single.

He stares at me for a couple more seconds, as if deciding what's more at stake: his pride or his professional credibility (#firstworldproblems).

Finally, he averts his eyes and almost looks...embarrassed? "Alright, I'm sorry. It was a bit insensitive." Pause. "I was in a bit of a hurry that morning, but that doesn't excuse what I did." Slightly longer pause. "And I shouldn't have misled you on the conference call with the Board." His strained tone makes him sound like he's admitting to murder. Or having dated one of the Real Housewives.

Still, it technically qualifies as an apology, and I've reached my quota of hot jerks for the week.

"Ok, then," I say in a much too bright tone. "Well, I think we're done-"

"Actually, if you didn't have any plans, I'd like to take you to dinner. There's a great Mexican restaurant in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood."

Hold up, what is happening? Is he asking me out-like out out?

I must look like a fish struggling to breathe on dry land (super sexy), because he gently adds, "If you're ok with it, that is."

I absently weigh the pro/cons in my head, trying to ignore how good he looks in his navy suit and green tie that just happens to be one shade darker than his eyes. Do I know what's happening? Absolutely not. Do I think he's being sincere?

Time to find out. "Sure, that sounds, um, ok."

He smiles like that shark from Finding Nemo, and I notice the son of a bitch has a dimple in his left cheek. Because apparently god was being extra generous. Stupid gene pool.

"Relax," he reassures. "I won't talk about any of the bodies in my backyard."

I stop packing. Did he actually just crack a joke during business hours?

This time I can't help but laugh out loud, even as my gut starts to churn. Why exactly is he acting so differently? My logical counterpart crosses her arms with a frown, but her fun-loving doppelgänger wiggles her eyebrows, lacing up her stilettos.

Logic glared at Fun, smacking her upside the head to get her point across.

I shoot off a text to Rosalie, hoping she'd understand due to the unique circumstances.

 _Apparently the Ass wants to take me to dinner. Gotta rain check this one-tell Emmett I said hi!_

As we get into the elevator, I hear my phone chime again, and I mutter a quick apology before glancing at the screen- _Hmmm. Well just remember I can't send you wine in jail. Have a nice dinner!_

I gulp. My weekend plans suddenly got a hell of a lot more interesting.

* * *

"You drive...a Volvo?"

"Yes. They are practical and safe. Is that judgement I'm hearing?"

"Oh no. It makes sense that a guy named Edward would drive a Volvo."

He glances over at me while I smirk at the tightening of his hands on the wheel. "Insulting my name and my car. You're really out for blood today, aren't you?"

I just barely manage to hide my smile. "Sorry. I'll behave."

For some odd reason, his lips purse and his hands tighten even more, knuckles turning practically white.

What a repressed weirdo.

Edward pulls up into a parking spot on the street, and I'm a bit impressed at the restaurant. Teddy and the Bully Bar was a relatively upscale venue, with a decent bar and a creative Mexican American menu. I didn't normally go there, because it was a popular date spot, but the general atmosphere was classy without being pretentious, a rare combination in D.C.

Shit. I probably can't order anything stronger than wine. Granted, we had crossed a couple of professional boundaries, but I'm not about to be a hot mess in front of him (again).

I do not need to give him more ammunition.

Edward barely glances at the menu. "I'll have a gin and tonic," he orders.

Well, never mind then.

I smile serenely at the waiter. "I'll have a vodka cranberry."

The waiter takes our orders and leaves, not knowing how lucky he is. Normally, I would run through a mental checklist of questions to ask a date or in polite company. Edward didn't fall into either category, but it was better than silence.

I plaster a fake smile on my face. "So, what made you decide to come work at IHS?"

For a second, amused disbelief flares in his eyes, and I feel the slightest lick of irritation. It might not have been original or authentic, but at least I'm making an effort.

He sits back and relaxes, drinking his water. "I needed a change of pace."

Right, probably don't want to dive too deeply into that pool. My smile dims a bit, but I stick with the herculean effort to freeze it in position. "Sure, I understand that. That's how I felt after college too."

He swirls the water, staring into the glass, not bothering to look up. Deja vu, anyone?

I try again. "What neighborhood did you recently move to?"

He stares behind me for a few seconds, his gaze clearly unfocused, before he blinks and settles his eyes on mine. "Sorry, what was the question?" He asks lazily. "It's a bit loud in here."

This time I can't help but narrow my eyes. Is he trying to get a reaction from me? Hasn't he learned from his recent medication recommendation not to do exactly that?

Calm down, Bella. Be the adult. "I asked you what neighborhood you recently moved to," I repeat.

"Capitol Hill."

Pretty neighborhood, but overly crowded with interns and wannabe politicians.

His lips twitch. "Not your favorite place to be?"

Oops. I conceal my discomfort with a politely fake laugh. "No, it's lovely. That's a great spot."

Even I wince a bit at how disingenuous that sounds.

The waiter sets down our drinks in front of us, and I debate how honest I want to be about my drinking habits. Edward politely sips his gin and tonic, so I follow his lead and do the same with my drink. For some reason, his previous disinterest is masked by his sharp, perceptive gaze, and in the slightly more intimate atmosphere, I allow myself to be unnerved. Just a bit.

Not breaking eye contact, the son of a bitch loosens his tie, revealing a flash of skin underneath.

I force myself not to react, instead remarking, "Capitol Hill is pretty underrated-there's a ton of unique shops and markets there, like Eastern Market." I sound like a tour guide, because I have no idea what to say. Honestly, after he apologized, I figured we would part ways and get drunk separately.

Not awkwardly sitting at a bar, wondering how long we had to endure each other's company.

Edward merely drums his fingers on the table. "Hmm," he responds noncommittally to my super cool fact.

Alright, enough. "Excuse me, I'm going to go to the bathroom."

Nod.

The man might be pretty, but he has the personality of a coconut. Maybe I hallucinated the weird sparks between us. Everything certainly feels dead in the water now.

I refresh my lipstick, tuck a few hair strands in place, and walk back out to finish my drink, determined to get through this dinner without any immature outbursts. I've always been volatile as a kid, something I was constantly berated for by my mother, and I wanted nothing more than to be stoic rather than show every emotion on my face.

Transparency makes you vulnerable, and that makes you weak.

Plus, I already misbehaved around the man twice, and I doubt I would get another get out of jail free card.

I take my seat again, and prepare another inane question. "So-"

"Are you going to ask me a real question, or are you going to keep going down your list of superficial dinner topics?"

I blink. Wait, what?

He crosses his arms and I've noticed that he's not only taken his suit jacket off, but he's loosened the first two buttons at the base of his neck.

"I mean, it's admirable, but I think we can bypass pleasantries, don't you?" He asks, mischief flashing in those bright green eyes.

I KNEW he was fucking with me.

Not bothering to hide my irritation, I place my arms on the table and lean forward. "First of all-I don't appreciate being used as an example. Secondly, there are studies that have linked gin with a lower sperm count. You're welcome. As for a real question-why did you leave ABS for us? You worked for them for years, only to suddenly resign? That doesn't make sense."

Silence is his immediate answer, and for a hard minute I believe he'll evade the question. His posture stiffens, and it's clear he's uncomfortable. But then-

"Maybe not on paper," he agrees. "But when one of your closest friends, his wife, and the CEO of the company are all colluding for the purposes to make money, even at the expense of other people, it's difficult to justify staying."

What the ever loving fuck. My eyes widen and I bite my lip to keep my jaw from dropping. "Oh my God," I exclaim, horrified. "How did the FDA-"

"They didn't. Apparently ABS does many things well, including covering up its own mistakes." There's an unmistakable bitterness that permeates his words, and a ribbon of pity slices through my shock and disgust. I can't begin to imagine what I would do if I'd found out that some of my closest co-workers or Carl had profited by harming others.

Which means there's only one thing I can say. "I'm sorry. That sounds like a really difficult position to be in. So why return to IHS? Why not just quit altogether? If you don't mind me asking, that is," I quickly add. Just because we've entered an alternate universe where he's actually talking to me doesn't mean I have an all access pass to his feelings.

Edward's stormy expression briefly clears, as he raises an eyebrow. "It's weird hearing you trying to be polite."

I roll my eyes. "Maybe for you. I'm perfectly polite to those who haven't stolen from me."

"Ah, that reminds me. Why did you choose to kick me that morning?"

"I thought we-"

"No, you explained why you thought it was justified. But of all the ways to confront me-why did you choose to kick me?"

I level my gaze at him. "You didn't answer my question."

He doesn't hesitate. "You didn't answer mine."

Right on cue, the electricity that I thought I had imagined surges forward, awakening from its dormancy. The low candlelight in the room further sharpens the edge of tension, sexual or otherwise. Obviously dangerous, but not discouraging; rather, it's the kind of temptation that lures you forward and strips you bare, watching with heated eyes while you dance and writhe about, as equally restrained as you are uninhibited.

He shakes his head as a faint smile ghosts his face. "This might be the gin and tonic talking, but as disillusioned as I might be...I guess I'm not ready to give up just yet."

He barks out a laugh. "Not the smartest move, is it?"

For some reason, I relax at his admission, even as my palms start to sweat at the earlier heated exchange. His confession, though personal, verifies that he's human, even if it wasn't obvious at first.

"I don't know. I think smart moves are overrated. If I had chosen to make the smart move on the day we met, then we wouldn't be enjoying this lovely dinner, now would we?" I punctuate my sarcastic comment by finishing my drink.

Edward chuckles again, and I have to actively remind myself this is the same guy who implied I'd slept with his dad.

"I think it's my turn now," he says slyly, leaning forward. "Why did you choose to kick me?"

Once again, his tone is mostly colored by curiosity rather than judgment. I debate how honest I want to be, and given the vodka cranberry I'd had with my last meal being lunch, and his little heart to heart, I decide to meet his stakes.

"I ran into someone from my past the night before, and it drove me a little crazy," I admit, shame making a cameo appearance. "It's not an excuse either, but I guess-I guess what you did reminded me of how he used to treat me."

Whoa, there. That was way too much too soon. Damn you, vodka cranberries!

To my surprise, Edward stiffens, and he leans forward even closer, his broad shoulders surrounding my field of vision. He looks frustrated, even a bit angry. For a second, I think he'll ask for more details, and I prepare myself to stop this weird progression.

I don't know what he sees in my face, because in the next second, his expression softens. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

I'm not sure exactly what he's apologizing for-the fact that he acted like an asshole or that I was involved with one-but for the first time that night, I realize that I've underestimated Edward Masen.

And fuck if I know whether that's a smart move or not.

I clear my throat. "Well, this dinner was certainly more interesting than I initially thought," I joke, feeling a bit more grounded when he retreats.

"It's not dinner without food," he said. "Unless you prefer to go somewhere else?"

Inspiration suddenly strikes me, and I resist the urge to bolt.

"Actually, if you're open to it-I have a better idea," I suggest. I smile slyly. "How do you feel about surprises, again?"

I expect a sarcastic response, but he cocks his head thoughtfully. "I'm starting to enjoy them," he answers. "I'll get the check."

* * *

"Ok, I admit, the cuisine isn't the best. But this view-this was worth it, right?" I ask excitedly, as we both casually bite our hot dogs, strolling along the Georgetown Waterfront.

Next to the Lincoln Memorial, this was my second favorite spot in D.C. Whenever my parents used to fight, I would escape to a local lake outside of our neighborhood, watching dragonflies kiss the water and fish release air bubbles, as I tried to find composure and watched the ripples stop and the stillness restored. As I grew older, I would routinely seek out nearby bodies of water for the quiet beauty and restoration of control.

I look expectantly at Edward, who nods in agreement. "It's not half bad," he comments, rubbing his jaw. "I have to say, the nights here are definitely more comfortable than the days."

He's being nice, non confrontational, but I can't help but note that we're talking about the weather.

"So, you just moved to D.C. a few weeks ago, right? How do you like it so far?"

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my cheeks redden. It was a typical opening question, but asked under atypical circumstances. I hadn't been this confused since my 6th grade sex ed class, when I was yelled at for eating the STD banana.

Edward shoots me an amused glance before dryly replying, "I don't hate it. I'm just considering buying kneepads for the future. I had no idea crime was so rampant in Georgetown."

Moderately encouraged by the non-incendiary response, I jab back, "Well, we take our caffeine pretty seriously. How else do you think we have the energy to attack random strangers?"

He nods solemnly. "This is true. What else would you do with that excess energy? Read or go outside? Don't be ridiculous."

This time I can't help but laugh. Good Lord, twice in one day in his presence. One more time and I might actually start to like the guy.

What is happening?

For the next half hour, we talk about the project, the pros and cons of living in a city, the pros and cons of living in D.C., and the weirdest things a client has done. Edward had gotten propositioned by the wife of a client member, which was made extra hilarious by the fact that she was well into her late 70s. I once had to sit through an entire meeting in a glass-encased office after noticing a rather flexible and creative couple having sex against the window in the hotel across from us.

"Afterwards, Carl came up to me and says, "Whoo, that was certainly a wake-up call. I need to call Esme and then send the coordinator of that meeting some flowers." I crack up so hard I can feel tears sting my eyes, especially since Edward merely rolls his with the exasperated affection a child has when hearing of his parent's embarrassing incidents, a smile tugging at his lips.

When he's not looking, I pinch myself just to make sure I haven't accidentally fallen asleep at work. I even think about spinning a dreidel Inception-style just to make sure.

Because this is weird. Actually, aside from Jasper's return to D.C., this might be the weirdest thing that's happened to me in the last month or two. And even more disturbing-I was genuinely enjoying myself and his company.

We pass the halfway point of the boardwalk, and he muses, "Carlisle and Esme both speak highly of you. They even mention having you over at the house a couple of times."

I smile softly at the mention of the eccentric pair. "Believe it or not, I used to be quite insecure and unsure of my abilities. I mean, I tried not to show it, but Carl saw right through it all. He never called me out, but instead stepped in as a mentor." I paused. "You're really lucky to have them, you know. They might be a bit dramatic sometimes, but they're two of the best people I've met since moving here."

"I think they would say the same of you." We both stop at the end of the pier.

I don't think we've ever had a comfortable silence, but I feel my chest warm at the compliment. Carl and Esme were the parents I wished I'd had as a kid, wondering why my own parents were so dysfunctional and worse, blaming myself for their mistakes. I had mommy and daddy issues (thanks guys), but it was easier to pretend that I didn't when I was around them. His acknowledgement almost makes me like him, just a bit, but there's one thing I need to address.

"So, why did you ask me to dinner?"

Edward puts his hands in his pockets and leans back against the bridge. "Carl and Esme aren't the only ones who vouched for you. Plenty of other researchers have praised your work ethic and transparency." Unlike the moment before, he sounds like he's stating a fact, but I know he probably pouted at this discovery.

I shrug. "You're only as good as the people you work with. So, this was to verify if what they said was true?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe it just didn't make any sense to keep punishing you for a bad first impression." His brow wrinkles at this, as if he hadn't come to this conclusion until he said it aloud. I don't blame him. We probably had one of the most unconventional introductions in professional history, and I'm sure we wouldn't be 100% BFFs in the next few weeks. But we had both apologized for our part, and were on the same page about how to move forward.

The Uber I called pulls up on the corner of the road, lights momentarily flashing to signal its arrival.

Not a date, not a date, not a date.

I'm not sure why, but these words echo frantically in my head, even though I have no desire to do anything stupid.

"I...actually had a decent time tonight," I start. "This wasn't horrible." I say this with the disbelief of a romance novel obsessed virgin who just had sex for the first time. Less disappointing, but shocked all the same.

The dimple reappears and he responds wryly, "Your enthusiasm is inspiring."

A witty retort is at the tip of my tongue, but I choose to end the night honoring the truce. "For the record, I think you're in safe hands here with IHS." Mature Bella has finally made her entrance, blowing kisses and waving as Logic rolls her eyes and Fun is occupied with the latest James McAvoy-Michael Fassbender fanfiction in the corner.

He shrugs, and I absentmindedly admire how the street lights illuminate the natural highlights in his hair, almost resembling the color of an old penny. This is the most relaxed I've ever seen him, and I'm sure the tension has left my shoulders as well. For once, I allow myself to believe that this is all real, and we could finally be cordial, even friendly.

Edward replies, "Old, callused hands, maybe. But what's done is done, and we can't go back to the past, no matter how tempting it might be."

The familiar weightlessness surfaces again, and I immediately think of my dilemma with Jasper.

His philosophical observation prompts me to comfortably ask, "You don't believe that people can change?"

A tired resignation shadows his eyes briefly, but he resolutely answers, "No. But I do believe that our perceptions of them can."

I snort. "What's the difference?"

A speculative expression appears and the corner of his mouth lifts as he points out, "The difference is that two weeks ago, we were hell bent on sabotaging each other, and now we're sharing a-sure, let's round up and call this a meal-together."

I grin teasingly. "Maybe I'm just using what I've learned tonight to plot my revenge."

The Uber driver texts me, notifying me of his location, and we both walk to the car. "Don't worry," I reassure. "For your sake, I think I can go back to being a professional. Watching you beg for mercy and offer dinner may have helped," I add cheekily, unable to resist.

He maneuvers his body to step to the side of the door, probably to open it for me, and I'm amused by the gesture. When he turns, his arm brushing against mine, I can't help but start a little at the heated expression.

"You should be honored. I don't get on my knees for people easily." Unlike his casual and even tone that underlined his words the entire night, this is spoken with deliberate slowness, with the goal to unsettle rather than to reconcile.

A wicked iteration of the same voice that had once ordered me to kick his ass starts to whisper seductive promises in my ear, producing an apple that I unashamedly bite.

"That's a shame," I breathed, a sudden breeze scattering my hair to lightly stroke his hand on the door. "Submissiveness suits you."

"Does it now?" He murmurs, his pupils blown wide in the dark. "I find the opposite to be true."

As a connoisseur of dirty romance novels, a slot machine of sexy stimuli fires through my mind until I'm unable to see concrete images but still manage to absorb their erotic effect. His hooded eyes and wide shoulders that curl around the edges of my personal space bubble verify that we're on the same page.

And I don't know why, but Logic's frantic warnings that have been escalating all night finally break through. Aside from the rush of excitement typically present in these weird moments, I register the first flicker….of uncertainty.

"I don't see it," I lie airily. "Thanks for dinner."

He smirks and opens the car door. Just before I slip inside, he leans in and whispers close to my ear, "Honesty is the foundation to every working relationship, Dr. Swan."

I whip my head around only to see the door close. The car starts to move and it's only when it leaves Georgetown do I stop replaying his voice in my head.

Honestly, I have no idea what the fuck just happened.


	10. The Reunion Part II

Hi everyone! I know this is late, and I'm truly sorry. Real life + difficult chapter = longer than usual delay. Seriously, I am biting my nails over this one, so I'll anxiously wait for the feedback. There's a lot of timeline manipulation so it can be a little confusing. There will be one more Jasper chapter and then it's onto Edward! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following!

Also, I've posted a new story- **Mutually Assured Destruction.** s/12059083/1/Mutual-Assured-Destruction

It's more of a murder-mystery story with some serious sparks between our lovely protagonists from the get go. Feel free to check it out!

The Reunion Part II

Jasper POV

 **Ten Years Ago**

 _"So that's it, then. It's done." A note of disbelief colored by resignation echoes through the shared apartment._

 _"Yeah. Yes."_

 _Pause. A deep sigh and unclenching of the fist. "When are you leaving?"_

 _"Next weekend. What about you?"_

 _"The Friday after next. I'm going to visit a friend."_

 _"Ok, so we'll talk then to-to figure stuff out."_

 _"Right."_

 _"Yeah."_

 _A stifling silence. I looked at the girl that I had once been enamored with, the girl I had considered spending the rest of my life with, and swallowed back a lump in my throat._

 _"Talk soon," I said softly, as she nodded robotically, stone still since I called time on our relationship._

I'm not proud of my choices during the days leading to the breakup; I drank myself into a stupor almost every night and would come back and pick fights over the stupidest things. Normal, happy Jasper knew to avoid conflict, especially with a girlfriend, but Drunk, bitter Jasper just wanted to fight and fight until all you feel is numbness. Because sometimes feeling nothing is actually better than feeling like utter shit.

Even when you know that breaking up is the best decision, none of that matters when your heart feels like it's been ripped out and repeatedly stomped on.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Instead of lashing out or trying to change my mind, Alice had simply assessed me with weary eyes, resigned to my words. She didn't fight it, because that's all she had done in the last few months with no results. We had both been pushing each other towards a future that no longer existed.

I hadn't been ready for marriage and kids, and neither had she. Long distance was an option, but no amount of shouting, threatening, bargaining, and pleading could detract from the obvious mess. There might have been a million words left unsaid, but there were millions more etched on the wall.

Look, I get it. You never forget your first love, you don't know how to love someone until you've had a broken heart, it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all-

Thanks.

Perhaps there isn't anything I can say that would make this a unique experience. Logic simplifies the situation into one word, with the obvious solution to just "get over it". There's an understandable and obligated amount of sympathy and pity that I was allowed before it seems pathetic. Heartbreak is routine, so ubiquitous that it's become boring-why else would TV shows and movies complicate relationships and quadruple love triangles? No one cares about something as simple and perhaps inevitable as a college break-up; the story practically writes itself: Boy meets Girl, Boy falls hopelessly in love with Girl, they move in together only to have things fall apart, Girl asks Boy to move across the country with her, Boy says no.

The problem was, knowing this had been the best decision didn't necessarily make it the right one.

But time moves on, and after a few months, the anger subsides and eventually you learn to focus on other aspects of your life. You learn to separate your wants and needs from this person that you were in love with for so long, and when that day comes, it's the most freeing feeling in the entire fucking world. When you're able to go to a store that you frequently visited with her and not have a panic attack, or watch a movie without thinking of her-congratulations, you're well on your way to "moving on", whatever the fuck that means.

I accepted, finally, that there was no longer an opportunity to reconcile after she moved to New York City for law school. And so I left for Boston, where I focused on my education. After graduation, I relocated to DC as Hill intern, where I met new people, went to movies, trained for two marathons, shook hands with powerful people, and smiled and laughed and drank and stumbled and recovered. I pretended that I was fine, that there wasn't a fucking gaping hole inside my chest.

I had been realistic, I defended repeatedly. We were never going to survive.

But no amount of logic can describe the spark of optimism and wonder I felt when I had first met her, laughing in the corner of a dirty frat house with her roommate. No amount of reason can define the sensation that had coursed through my veins, a lasting warmth that spread slowly, when I told her that I loved her, and she repeated the sentiment with tears in her eyes. No rule could explain why the more time I had spent with her, the more I had realized that this was different.

It had simply been, more.

So it wasn't completely surprising that I felt cautiously optimistic when I met with Alice three years later. She had just moved to DC after graduating law school. This was the first time I had seen her since our breakup in college.

Looking back, I don't know why I had agreed to meet up with her. I wish I could say it was because I had found closure and wanted to see how she was doing out of concern and caring, but that would be bullshit. Like all of the worst exes, I wanted to see if she was happier with or without me. I wanted confirmation that my decision to break up had been the right one.

I needed to know it hadn't been a mistake.

 **Seven Years Ago**

 _"Hi," She smiled softly, as her eyes crinkled at the corners, and I realized with a start how rare those were when we had last been together._

 _"Hi," I replied cautiously, a sinking feeling spreading in the pit of my stomach._

 _And then she told me how happy she was with her new boyfriend. How much they had in common, how he made her feel, how they went to fucking Paris for their one year anniversary. She gushed over his thoughtfulness, his maturity, his political ambitions. She smiled more and laughed in a way that had never been, with us._

 _A caustic mixture of pride, anger, and hurt inflamed every nerve, even as I reminded myself that I knew this had been a possibility. But the outcomes I'd expected never included that she might be fucking ecstatic in a new relationship. I had thought she was the only love of my life, and believed it to be mutual, and I got a front row seat to witness how wrong I had been._

 _So when she asked, "How've you been?" with the perfect amount of disaffected concern and polite bullshit, I considered being as honest as possible. I envisioned cursing her out and getting the fuck out of the restaurant, waiting for a twisted sense of satisfaction._

 _But what would that achieve? For either of us?_

 _"I'm fine," I responded, plastering a smile. "Everything's been really great."_

 _Please don't believe me. Recognize that I'm faking it and ask me how I've truly been. Or at least that you still care._

 _Or pretend to believe me. Give me a reason to feel justified in my anger and hate you._

 _She exhaled. "I'm glad. We both deserve to be happy."_

Debatable.

Then came Bella, and with it the first breath of air after being submerged in the icy brooding, panicked planning, and endless self-doubt. For reasons better and far worse, I finally felt like moving on wasn't impossible. Bella and I never transitioned into a relationship, but the time we spent together made me recognize the people I needed to keep around and the people I needed to leave behind.

I only wish it stayed that simple.

 **Two Years Ago**

 _"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I-I-" Tremors spread throughout her petite frame, and I quickly rushed to her side, wrapping my arms around her to stop the shaking._

 _I felt queasy, and for a moment my curiosity was overtaken by my need to comfort her._

 _The woman I had spent half a decade loving was in pain, and simply, so was I._

 _I silently held her as she weeped, still in shock that she was actually in my apartment. We had barely spoken to each other since the last time we had met._

 _"Alice. Alice-what happened?" I asked softly, barely above the volume of her cries._

 _She slowly regained composure, or faked it so I wouldn't see. "He lied," she explained softly. "He-he left me. And now I'm-" This resulted in another burst of tears and incoherent sobbing. I didn't want to feel anything, but I felt pity. I didn't want to ask about her problem, but I empathized with her pain._

 _"Alice-you need to tell me what happened. Are you talking about your boyfriend? What did he-did he hurt you?" A few horrifying scenarios automatically appeared, and my concern tripled. She untangled from me and brushed the tears out of her eyes, the movements jerky and uncoordinated. I'd never seen her this rattled, and I mentally prepared myself for further details._

 _She sighed shakily. "Brandon and I broke up; apparently his f-father forced him to choose between his family and me, and I lost."_

 _A few more tears escaped and she muffled a quick sob. "H-his father is a powerful judge so Brandon needs him for his p-political career. He needs him, but I guess-I'm not-" She clutched her hair in her hands and cried, as the grief and shock caused her body to bend forward._

 _I tried to calm my pounding heartbeat. "I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry."_

 _And I was. There was no satisfaction now, no sense of validation. I had learned how to carry the baggage so as to not feel the full weight. "Maybe you can't get rid of the baggage," Bella once reasoned. "Maybe it'll always be there, weighing you down. But you don't have to carry it alone. You can choose to surround yourself with people who will carry it beside you."_

 _She was right. The load had become easier to carry every day, and even though the weight was the same, I felt lighter._

 _Ok, probably not the best time to pat myself on the back for lessons learned._

 _I went to my kitchen and poured her a glass of water, before setting it in front of her. I fidgeted nervously. "Not to be rude, but Alice- why are you here?"_

 _She looked at me with her tear-stained, dark blue eyes, and explained, "Brandon's father-Judge Reynolds-threatened to have me blacklisted from every major law firm in the city unless I leave. But I-I can't. I don't-I haven't made any other connections and I don't have enough time to find another job."_

 _She took another shuddering breath. "He's already started to work on a restraining order and changed the lock on the apartment. I c-can't-I can't get into my own apartment."_

 _What the fuck? "I don't understand. Why-why is he doing this?" I asked, completely at a loss. I had heard of similar power trips from other political families, but it didn't make any sense. Why now? And why Alice? She didn't have blue blood, but she was accomplished in her own right._

 _When did my life start to resemble The O.C.?_

 _Side note_ _: The decision to watch this show was a product of my friendship with Bella, not by choice._

 _"I-I'm not sure," she responded uncertainly, twisting the tissue in her hand. "He never liked me and made his disapproval pretty clear. But I didn't think he would stoop this low. And I guess it doesn't matter, does it? Brandon was the one who ended it. And-well, I can't leave D.C. At least not right now."_

 _She looked up at me, still shaking and unsure. "I know this is an imposition. I know this is a horrible thing to ask, but-Jasper-"_

 _Just ask me. Do it._

 _She blinked as several tears slid down her porcelain complexion. Even crying hadn't affected her appearance. There wasn't a single hair out of place and her clothes were impeccably pressed and wrinkle-free._

 _"C-Can I stay with you for awhile?"_

 _I should've asked what she meant by "awhile"; I should've asked why she came to me. But in that moment, faced with her unbearable pain and hopelessness, I simply agreed._

 _"Yes," I replied softly, as I leaned down to hug her to my chest, muffling her quiet sobs._

 _Yes, this would be my downfall._

 _Over the next few days, an almost laughably awkward routine was reluctantly established. I still went to work while Alice essentially moped around the apartment (not that I could really judge her). She never went out and locked herself in my bedroom while I ordered another mattress and set up another bed in the living room. We didn't really talk, and I sensed she and I both needed space. Whenever I did probe, she just shut down automatically, reverting back to the girl I had broken up with in college._

 _This was the right thing to do, I acknowledged. We didn't need to bond or reconnect. This was simply a means to an end, a matter of convenience. She had nowhere to go, and I could offer her the basic physical necessities, but I drew the line at emotional support. After all, the last time I felt the way she did was because of our breakup. And even though I had taken steps to become happier, I knew how easily that progress could be undone._

 _The problem is that I saw her every day, and my heart didn't ache any less when I saw how empty she seemed, how hopeless. Christ, was this what I looked like after our breakup? Where the hell were my friends?_

 _After a week, I decided to intervene. "Alice-I know I'm not the best person to give you this advice, but-you need to take time for yourself and re-focus your future. Without him. I know it sucks, and it hurts like hell, but there's no other option."_

 _She didn't look up. "I can't do this alone," she replied woodenly._

 _"You have to," I countered gently. "You don't have to talk to me, but you need someone. Is there anyone that you can talk to-close friends?"_

 _She laughed bitterly. "There's only one person I need to see and talk to. And I legally can't be around him."_

 _My pulse fluttered frantically, sensing this was dangerous territory, but I pushed further._

 _"No," I agreed. "He's-he's gone. You need to start taking care of yourself."_

 _Harsh? Sure. But I hadn't meant to punish her; there wasn't any leftover anger or resentment. I understood her situation and genuinely wanted to help her. I wanted to be the catalyst that stimulated the "moving on" process that had taken me so long to initiate._

 _But I know what you want to ask: Had I envisioned us getting back together?_

 _At the time of this conversation, the answer would've been an emphatic no. I knew the havoc she could wreak in my life and I no longer wanted to be the person I was in college; I couldn't be. We had been happy once upon a time, and I could be grateful, but not ignorant. So my intentions were to be there for her as a friend, and nothing more._

 _But you know what they say about good intentions._

 _After that day, Alice showed signs of revival. She left the apartment to jog around the neighborhood, contacted some of her old colleagues to officially resign from her position, and applied to many, many, jobs around the country. Even better, after two more weeks, she started to cook again, even making dinner a few times. And strangely, we both started talking again, acknowledging the good and bad of our previous relationship, laughing and joking about everything that had happened in the past few years, and rediscovering ourselves as adults. We became more comfortable with each other physically, teasingly slapping each other over dinner and TV marathons, and all of a sudden, I realized that we had never been this close when we had lived together._

 _And with that realization came the beginning of the end-the seed of possibility that we could become not what we once were, but something better._

 _After all, we had both changed, and mostly for the better, or so it seemed. More importantly, we both worked well together and learned how to communicate with each other; essentially, we righted all of the past wrongs and avoided stepping onto the minefield that had been our previous relationship._

 _The fact that she was leaving D.C. didn't provide any further clarity. If anything, it only strengthened my resolve to propose that we begin again. A sense of familiar desperation clung to my decision, although this didn't register as anything other than an easily dismissed concern at the time._

 _So of course, in the midst of my artificial happiness, reality had to sink in._

"Jasper?"

I blink repeatedly, shaken from the memories. Slowly, I register that I'm sitting in front of the White House with a Starbucks cup that has long since cooled.

"Jasper?"

I look up and see Bella next to me, eyes filled with concern.

"Wha-what are you doing here?" She asks hesitantly. "It's freezing out."

I shrug. "I thought I'd walk around the city."

And you know, brood in public because the natural lighting highlights my cheekbones.

She chews her bottom lip nervously and seems to weigh her choices. Finally-

"Can I sit?"

I nod and sip my coffee, wincing at the frozen liquid. For a few minutes, we don't say anything. It isn't a comfortable silence but we both know anything said would be unnecessary. A wry sense of surprise flickers faintly at the coincidental timing, but my mind, like my body, just feels numb and cold.

Bella brushes her hair behind one ear. "Ok, I'm just going to ask. Are you ok?"

 _"I have feelings for you," Bella said, cautiously watching me. I raised my eyebrows and felt the bottom of my stomach drop out. "W-what?" I stammered, thinking that I may have misunderstood. She shrunk a bit, discouraged by my reaction, but continued. "I have feelings for you; romantic feelings. And I'm just wondering, given everything that's happened in the past few months, if you...if you might feel something. For me. Too."_

 _She chewed on her bottom lip, gaze steady on mine, radiating anxiety. Oh fuck, I thought. This was going to be brutal. "I can't," I replied softly. "I don't-honestly, I really like you, Bella. You're so funny, sweet, smart, and beautiful, but I'm just-_

 _I watched her stiffen and then nod robotically. "Right," she said. "No, I understand. Wow. Um, so I'm just going to leave now. I just-I need time to think."_

 _I looked at her helplessly, torn between offering more half-assed explanations and apologizing. Her bottom lip trembled, and I wanted to hurt myself._

 _"Bella-" I started. She stilled and finally looked up at me, her gaze searching. I could see panic and it was obvious she wanted to run, but it was just as obvious that she wanted me to give her a reason to stay. My mouth hung open, yet nothing came out. I willed myself to say something comforting, something real, or anything at all-but I only offered silence._

 _Tell her about Alice, I could hear myself screaming in my head. Just tell her._

 _She blinked rapidly, tears forming in her eyes, and I felt like I'd been gut punched as they fell. "Right," she said, voice wavering. "Ok, I'm going to go now."_

 _I dropped my gaze to the cold marble of the memorial, and finally said, "I'm sorry. I didn't expect this to happen." Between her and Alice's confessions, I felt myself being torn apart with indecision over my next steps. What did this mean for us? Any of us? How do I fix something that should probably stay broken?_

 _Her footsteps paused, just long enough for me to look back up. I saw her fists clench before she turned around._

 _Oh shit. Here it comes._

 _"I just don't-I don't get it. I really don't. We've basically been acting like a couple for months now, and you're actually surprised that I have feelings for you?" She asked, trying to understand._

 _Well, join the club._

 _"I thought-I thought you knew what this was," I replied lamely. "I know we're not strictly platonic, but I thought you knew I can't offer you anything else."_

 _She laughed bitterly. "Why do men always do this? I'm not asking for a wedding ring, I'm just asking if you're open to the idea of a relationship." She paused and gulped before straining to look at me. "I'm just asking you to try. That's it."_

 _Goddamn it._

 _Fuck._

 _FUCK._

 _I closed my eyes briefly, trying to take control of the situation. It's tempting to agree, and if it weren't for Alice's sudden return, I might have actually just said yes. But given what I'd just learned a few hours ago-_

 _"I'm sorry. I can't." I paused before shakily adding, "There's...there's someone else."_

 _I blurted out, "Alice has been staying with me for the past few weeks. That's why I've been so busy."_

A sudden wind picks up and emits a warningly shrill howl, and Bella shivers beside me. The memory might have resurfaced unexpectedly, but the timing was perfect. I dismiss the urge to tell her I was fine, with some other polite bullshit attached. Instead, I tell her something I know I should've said when we first reunited.

"I'm sorry," I say simply. "For everything-I'm sorry."

I feel rather than see her tense. I don't know if this was something she expected or needed. I couldn't see her as the pining type, but then again I don't really think when it comes to her. She was never a weakness like Alice, but she mattered just as much as Alice did. That's true now, and that was true two years ago.

"Ok," she responds slowly. "I don't-I don't know how to respond to that."

I turn around to face her. "I'm not asking for you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I fucked up and I'm sorry."

Her face crumples and she shakes her head, the curled strands falling into disarray. "Don't-don't do this," she says firmly. "I can't be friends with you. Not yet. I need time."

I nod robotically. "I understand."

Suddenly, her eyes flare with undisguised anger and she clenches her fists. "No, you don't. You don't get to apologize and pretend that what happened won't affect the present. I'm not being unreasonable."

I grit my teeth. "Fine."

She shivers again and wraps her arms around herself. "Ok. Good."

We both watch an elderly couple stroll past us, chucking and pointing at a squirrel nearby.k

"What are you doing here?" She asks tiredly, as if she can't help but care even though that's the last thing she clearly wants.

"I'm sitting here, like you. But I'm not freezing my ass off." I explain, agitation punching through the words.

"That's called hypothermia, idiot," she snaps back.

I don't know why, because I know I can easily apologize or even turn this into familiar banter, but for once, I don't care to disguise my frustration.

"Then just leave," I demand. "Why the fuck are you even here when you just told me you can't be around me? Seriously, Bella, it's been two years. I'm sorry I broke your heart, ok? I'm sorry I couldn't be the perfect boyfriend and gave you what you deserved, and I'm sorry for trying to fix things between us."

Bella stands up, visibly bristling. "Honestly, I don't know why I'm here. I guess part of me still cares when all you do is continue to care about yourself, Jasper. You're only apologizing to me because you need me to be back in your life. You use me as some kind of buffer between your shit with Alice. You want me until you don't. And that's why I need time."

I run my shaky hands through my hair. "That's not true," I allege even as I doubt the veracity of my defense. "I-I tried. At first, I really wanted to be the guy you deserved. But then I realized I couldn't give you those things and I honestly thought you understood. But Bella-" I swallow slowly as I finally ask her the question I'd been wondering since the night of the Lincoln Memorial:

"Why did you stay, if all I did was hurt you?"

Bella blinks rapidly to discourage the tears gathering at the back of her eyes but she stiffens all the same. "You know why," she replies steely. "Or at least I suspect you do."

I want to kick myself. Staying with someone despite the fact that there was no future? Yeah, I could relate.

She pivots away and I watch her discretely wipe her eyes.

"You liked us because we were easy, so I convinced myself it wasn't worth it to make things difficult. You wanted me just shy of enough, when I stupidly thought you were everything. And that-that had been enough." There's a slight tremble in her voice, which quietly resonates through the night, carried away by the settling wind. It's almost like she didn't mean to say this part aloud.

But I heard every word.

My fingers twitch, and the guilt from her description forces me to recall the familiar desperation she's described. And I realize for the first time just how deeply I've hurt her these past two years.

"You're right," I affirm, the words forcefully landing dead on arrival, igniting more pain than relieving it.

I had only been with Alice for a few weeks, losing myself in the fantasy of a renewed "us", whereas Bella had been my friend for four years. We had seen each other at our worst, and while I had considered her a friend for life, she had labeled me the love of hers.

What a fucking mess.

"You never told me why you left," she accuses suddenly, the previous wistfulness gone. "So I'm asking you now."

Closing my eyes slowly, I don't bother to answer but her question prompts the unwelcome replay of the night everything went to hell.

 _It had been almost a month since Alice and I had been living together, so I decided to buy some flowers to commemorate the occasion. Perhaps it was under the worst terms, but I became accustomed to and appreciated her presence in my life again, and I wanted to make sure it stayed this way._

 _I unlocked the door quietly, prepared to shout out teasingly, "Honey, I'm home!" like all the other nights._

 _You can stop rolling your eyes now._

 _Instead, I heard her talking to someone on the phone in the kitchen. Normally, I would have walked in and greeted her anyway, but this time I stopped when I heard her say, "Of course I haven't told him. I just-I need more time."_

 _Yes, this was the epitome of romantic cliches-me hiding behind the kitchen door, listening in on her conversation._

 _She sighed heavily. "I will. I know I have to. But not today. Soon. I-I care about Jasper. And this will only make things worse."_

 _My phone buzzed and I glanced at the screen haphazardly, relaxing when I see that it's from Bella. "Hey, there's something I really need to tell you. Wanna meet up around 8? Lincoln Memorial?"_

 _I responded with a quick, "Yeah, sounds great," even as I started to sweat. Mentally debating how to confront this situation, I waited until Alice hung up before walking in._

 _I placed the flowers on the counter and cautiously asked, "Who was that?"_

 _She didn't look up, still swiping over the smooth surface of the phone. The colorful array of roses lay between us like a giant warning sign._

 _"Just a good friend," she answered absently. I resisted the urge to grab my hair, feeling the frustration bubble to the surface._

 _"If there is something I need to know, whether you want me to or not, then this is your chance," I said quietly._

 _She finally looked up, a bit startled at the sudden ultimatum, before her eyes narrowed. "You were listening," she guessed, with an accusing tone in her voice._

 _I crossed my arms and looked at her, while she tensed. I could feel us both mentally securing our armor into place._

 _"Yes. I didn't mean to be, but now I know there's something you're not telling me." My shoulders dropped a bit when I see her gaze nervously shift to a fixed point behind me._

 _Something was wrong._

 _But I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to revert back to the young, immature versions of ourselves who communicated through shouting matches and ultimatums._

 _So I broke. "Just tell me," I pleaded. "Please."_

 _She wiped her face with her hands and took a shuddering breath before finally looking at me. She'd always been petite with delicate features, but never did she appear more fragile or breakable than she did in that moment._

 _Her wide, blue eyes fixed on me, searching for something I hoped she'd find. Absently, I noted her physical resemblance to a doll, or some kind of porcelain statue-the ones that you were told repeatedly as a child not to touch for fear of leaving cracks in the perfect surface._

 _She placed her trembling hands on the counter, and quietly confessed,_

 _"I'm pregnant."_

 _It's ironic, then, that I'm the one who shatters._


	11. The Road Less Traveled

Hi everyone! Apologies for the long wait-a mixture of work, the other story I'm working on, and trying to make sense of things with people. Ugh, people ; ) Anyway, enough of my brooding. I just want to state that in no way am I condoning anyone's actions in the story, or see it as part of the process to "moving on". Everyone's allowed their moments of vulnerability and I think Bella's in one of hers. And before you ask-no, she and Jasper will not be getting together. Promise. As always, let me know what you think! :)

The Road Less Traveled

Bella POV

"Jasper?" My voice doesn't shake like my hands do, so I curl them into fists, preparing a fight that feels so familiar to lose.

I don't know how I got here, with him. When we were dating, I refused to acknowledge that I was fracturing pieces of myself that I gave away too eagerly, if only to continue feeling that weightlessness that I believed signified the beginnings of love. After we decided to be friends, I chose to emphasize the giddiness of each flicker of possibility, each dancing temptation, and ignored the burns left behind.

And then he left. So those flames died.

But seeing him, half frozen on the rotted wood of the park bench, his lips blue and his body still, with eyes so empty and hollow, I feel...something. Pity, definitely. Sympathy-maybe a little. I had mourned the loss of our whatever we had. Maybe I wasn't whole, and I never would be, but I had grieved.

So when he apologized, it only served to undermine the acceptance of my pain, like a stranger who asks someone if they're ok when they're barely holding it together. I didn't want his "I'm sorry's" or his "I know I fucked up"s. We aren't ok, but that's fine. We don't need to be ok.

"The night of the Lincoln Memorial…" shivers interrupt his barely audible explanation. "Before you texted me to meet, I found out...I overheard on the phone that Alice was pregnant."

My eyes widen, as I use the arm of the bench for support, feeling the soggy wood dampen my jeans. "Pregnant? Was it-"

"No, it was her ex's. Brandon. But Brandon's father blackmailed her and forbid him to continue seeing her." He swallows. "She didn't have anywhere else to go, so she showed up at my apartment one night."

I can't help it. I pinch myself and look around for cameras, not that Jasper notices.

Seriously, if this is a TV drama, I'm ready for the hair, makeup, and amazing wardrobe anytime now.

I know it's my turn to say something, but I can't figure out my role. Does he expect me to comfort him, to hold his hand and soothe his pain-the same pain that he inflicted on me? Am I to analyze this with him and help him achieve a sense of acceptance, of understanding that sometimes the world is just shitty because people fuck up?

Or do I walk away completely, refusing to continue down any of those paths?

"So you left because she didn't tell you?" I settle on the "none of the above" option, trying to make sense of it all.

His stare doesn't waver from the ground. "It's complicated," he starts tiredly. "Living with her for those few weeks-I thought we could start over, and I still had feelings for her." Echoes of pain and desperation faintly register, as I recall all of the crying and self doubt that followed his confession.

I force myself to relax, having noticed how stiff I've been since sitting down.

"So when she told me-yes, I was upset. I was fucking devastated. But a part of me thought-stupidly, I thought that maybe we could make this work. That even though it was fucked up, I could make it better."

I turn towards him, shock inciting my words. "You considered raising the child together?"

The leaves scatter and dance at our feet to the rhythm of the wind, as he nods. "I know it sounds improbable, even stupid. And I still don't know what I was thinking, except that I felt it was the right thing to do. But then-"

Dread drops like a heavy stone in a pond, creating ripples of apprehension and awareness. "Then I told you that you didn't deserve any happiness."

In my sophomore year of college, I had to watch a movie chronicling a young girl's abusive relationship with her stepfather. I had never hated a film character more. And it wasn't acknowledgement that the abuser was vile or disappointment that he existed; it was an almost uncontrollable, violent hate. All I wanted was to see this person suffer. Yet when that scene came, when his actions were exposed and beaten up by a gang of family members, the satisfaction towards the first fist making its impact quickly faded, and a growing horror and new wave of revulsion took its place at the very actions I had been eagerly anticipating. The violence, though understandable and appropriate, didn't make me feel better in the long-term or change anything.

After Jasper had told me about Alice, I was consumed with the overwhelming urge to hurt, to lash out, to inflict pain. All the years of friendship and infatuation disintegrated into a single impulse, registering nothing but my broken heart.

Given the option to fight or flight-I chose to stay and attack.

And while there was an immediate satisfaction from my vicious words that night, all that truly lingered was regret and disbelief. I finally felt like I had an active voice, having kept silent about my doubts for so long, and I used it to indulge my desire to hurt him.

Regardless of what he had done-I realized that this was not who I set out to be, and not who I wanted to become.

"Everything you said was true, though. How could I possibly be responsible for two other people, or a baby?" Jasper clutches his hair, his eyes taking on a crazed glint. "I don't know when she was going to tell me, so how could I trust her? And then I hurt you, and it felt like anyone I became close to just kept getting hurt. And it was-it wa-"

His entire body starts to shake, the tremors escalating since his confession. He swallows repeatedly but ends up gasping for air instead, clutching his chest.

Shit.

Having had a few of these in my early 20s, I recognize the signs of a panic attack, and I rub my hands down his arms, wincing at the sting of the chilly night air.

"Hey, hey-look at me. Jasper-look at me. You're ok, just breathe with me. Ready?" I exaggerate my breathing and align the rhythm of our inhales and exhales. The shaking doesn't lessen, so I lean in close and place my hands on his face.

"Stay with me. Don't think about anything else. Everything is ok. You just need to breathe. Jasper-" My voice trembles slightly and I curse my slip-up, hoping he doesn't notice. For the next few minutes, we simply shiver and tremble together, as words of reassurance and encouragement are uttered just to be blown away, disappearing as quickly as they manifest. A sense of helplessness grows inside me, but I quickly dismiss the selfishness of my reaction.

I could analyze my emotions later; right now, I need him to calm down.

The last of the tremors subside and a few more minutes pass before I contract and assess his movements from my corner. Silence swallows us until finally he utters, "Thanks. I-I'm sorry you had to see that."

A piece of my heart softens and melts, and I count the drops of blood left behind.

He continues. "You told me I couldn't do this, and I believed you. I still do. So when the offer to relocate was made, I decided to run. Yes, it was selfish. But if I fucked up then it wouldn't be anywhere near the people I cared about. So I left."

It doesn't register until just now how fragile and damaged he's been for the past few years. But I ignore my automatic instinct to help. "I know I'm stating the obvious, but I think you should talk to someone. Someone professional. I can even refer you to some of the therapists in the area," I suggest gently, well aware of the stigma, especially among young men, to seek mental health services.

Jasper doesn't respond, simply closing his eyes and running his hands through his hair again, the blonde strands in disarray.

I try again. "Despite everything that happened between us, I do care about you. And I'm sorry for what I said-I hope you know I was just so angry and hurt."

Cue shuddering breath that inflates my chest with coldness and rattles my lungs.

"You deserve to be happy, Jasper. I can't grant you forgiveness or atonement for your actions, because that's not my place. You had your reasons for leaving, and if there's one thing I've learned over the past two years, it's that you can't keep blaming yourself. And when you realize that, it might not make you feel better. At least not right away. But I promise you, it will."

He finally looks up at me, his gaze sober. "Why does it always feel like you're saying goodbye?"

Because that's what I've been struggling to do, you idiot.

I feel the moisture prick my eyes and force myself not to blink. "Because you always let me."

I swallow even as the tears fall, and muster a half-hearted smile.

When I turn around and walk away this time, I don't say anything.

* * *

"Because you let me? What does that mean?" Emmett's booming voice rises above the low chatter of the speakeasy, as I pound another shot.

Yupp. Emotional, Introspective Bella was out of the building, ushering in Angsty, Impulsive Bella.

"Alright, that's it. No more shots for you," Rose scolds, clamping down my hand before I can order another drink. "For the record, I am proud of you. There's no way you could've said how you really felt two years ago. And it is a goodbye...isn't it?"

I eye the empty shot glass miserably.

"Isn't it?" Her accusing tone slices through the previous friendly, pleasant tone of a confidante.

"Yes, of course," I answer impatiently, gesturing to move on. "I mean, it is the smartest choice right? I would be a total idiot for trying to include him in my life, to even offer any kind of reassurance that it's going to be ok. He doesn't deserve that, but goddamn it, who gives a fuck? I certainly don't." This is punctuated by my pouring of more than a generous glass of wine.

Emmett rolls his eyes. "I'm convinced."

I glare at him. "The man had a panic attack in front of me, and left because he found out that his ex, who he professed to be in love with at the time, was pregnant with her ex's baby."

"Sounds like the next episode of the Bachelor," Rosalie muses.

Emmett snorts. "More like Bachelor in Paradise."

We both stare at him until he sheepishly clears his throat. "I'm going to get a Sam Adams. You know, from Boston. Patriots. Tom Brady."

Rose pats his arm. "Go ahead, honey," she encourages.

At this point, it might seem like Jasper is the villain in my story, but that's not wholly true. I had romanticized our relationship and blindly ignored any warning signs from the beginning. Yes, he had been the architect of it all, but I had refused to move from the crumbling foundation, stubbornly standing by the rubble.

I continue. "The fact is, I overestimated my place in his life. I wanted so badly for us to be together, that I didn't think about what it would actually be like if it happened. He was moody, distant, and selfish-did I really think those things would go away if we were a couple?"

Rose glowers at me. "Is that victim-blaming I hear?"

I shake my head a little too furiously, steadying myself as the dizziness fades. "No, look-" I run my fingers through my hair in agitation and lean in closer.

"He fucked up. Badly. That's undeniable. But at some point, I was just hurting myself by refusing to give up the idea of us. And now I can't help but wonder-if I had accepted that we were never going to be more than friends and given up that expectation-wouldn't everything be much simpler?"

I swallow slowly. "I didn't want to see him again, and I certainly didn't want to have a heart to heart. But we did, and he's miserable, Rose. He's more broken than ever. And this is definitely the wine talking, but I still care. I may not necessarily want to, but I do. So I can't help but think...maybe now that I know there's no future between us, can we actually just be friends?"

She places her arms on the table and leans forward, eyeing me uncertainly. "Maybe. So what are you saying? That you know he's bad for you, but you feel sorry enough for him to try and be platonic this time around?"

"I don't know," I confess, albeit drunkenly. "For the longest time, I was pissed that he left, and then I learned how to be happy because of it. Now he's back, more fucked up than ever, and I just feel sorry for him. There's no satisfaction, anger, love, hate; there's just nothing."

Rose silently sips her wine, most likely judging me before shrugging. "You know what I think. But if you feel like you need to try and be friends with him...well, just know that I'll be there with a bottle of wine and ice cream, no matter what."

We exchange a look of understanding, built on pure girlfriendship goals, acknowledging our impasse but offering each other support to the best of our abilities.

Emmett returns to our table, looks between us and groans. "Are we still talking about that asshole?"

This time I just laugh. At least I knew where my friends stood.

* * *

"And I think that wraps it up," Carl finishes, turning off the projector and concluding the monthly staff meeting.

Papers rustled and chairs squeaked as everyone shuffles out. It's not until a pen hits the bottom of my chair that I snap out of my daze and quickly gather my things together.

Goddamn it. Deja vu.

"So I heard you've reached a ceasefire. Trying to get that Employee of the Month distinction?" Carl jokes, as I stand to leave.

"Believe it or not, we've decided to be mature adults for once. War's over, Carl. You can come out of your hiding place now," I explain, winking for good measure.

We both chuckle, having moved on from the disastrous first few weeks of Edward's employment. Mainly because of me, but we don't need to linger on that.

"Well, even though I'm not as entertained, I'm glad you two are working together smoothly. Partners," Carl's voice takes on a sly edge, creeping slightly towards the true meaning, but stopping just short of any elaboration.

I narrow my eyes. "Should I be worried?"

He smiles innocently, before reaching over to pat my shoulder. There's a short list of people who I allow to touch me, and lucky for Carl-he's one of them. "Your generation worries too much," he answers breezily. "You should be out having fun and celebrating your youth. Speaking of which-I assume you received the invitation to the White House Correspondents' After Party in the lovely LeClaire Mansion?"

Because nothing said YOLO like drinking champagne with a bunch of stuffy aristocrats who use pretentiousness to mask their dick measuring contest.

Still, it can be nice to dress up and pretend that I was someone important for an evening. I even know which fork to use for the salad now.

I nod politely. "I have, and I'm picking out dresses as we speak. Would you like to go over that in detail?"

He makes a show of shuddering and shaking his head. "If you're giving me an out, I'm taking it. I've been married long enough to know the questions and answers that follow that conversation-'What do you think?' I think it looks great, dear. 'Is this shade ok?' I think it looks great, dear. 'Do I look fat in this?' You look like a Grecian goddess floating among peasants, dear."

I laugh, and for the first time this week, feel the ever present knot in my stomach loosen. It might not be on purpose, but Carl always knew how to make me feel better, almost magically. I envied his seemingly perfect life and his carefree attitude. Even at my happiest, I would still feel a fissure of doubt, wondering when the next stressful thing would come and how I would handle it.

Or more accurately, how I wouldn't handle it.

I smile genuinely and walk with him back to my office. "Such great husband advice. I'm sure Edward appreciates your wisdom."

He scoffs. "You'd think he'd take some notes, but apparently relationships aren't his priority right now. I swear, sometimes I wonder if he still thinks girls have cooties."

I bite my lip to stifle a giggle, and reply, "Well, that would certainly explain a lot."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, dad," the sarcastic tone of his disgruntled son registers from behind us, and we both turn around.

"Well, it's not like you've been dating since you got back," Carl shot back defensively. "Who was the last girl you brought home? Veronica? Betty? No, those are Archie characters." He scratches his chin, perplexed.

Edward just rolls his eyes and places his hand in his pockets. "I've been busy working at your company," he explains pointedly. "And no, this is not a secret request for you and mom to start setting me up with random women."

I look back and forth between the two of them, fascinated like a spectator at a tennis match.

Carl shrugs. "Well, I tried. I guess the Cullen line will just die with me." He shakes his head disappointedly and slowly walks away while Edward just mutters, "Drama queen," under his breath.

I stare him vaguely in wonder. "What just happened?" I ask. "Did you really argue about your dating life with your dad in front of me?"

He shoots me a resigned look. "Have you ever had a straightforward, mature conversation with him? I went to ask him about the staffing projections for a project yesterday, and he spent half an hour debating whether to switch over to tea from coffee. Which then led to an in-depth exploration of the exploitation of foreign workers in South America and Asia."

I can't help but laugh again, slightly bewildered that talking to him was actually making me feel better too. He nods towards my office. "Can I review the site visits with you for next month? It looks like two of the recruiters will be out on PTO, so we'll need to figure out replacements and maybe shift the timeline around."

Somehow, being alone with him in my office wasn't completely unappealing…

I clear my throat and dust the dirt from my mind. "Sure, come on in." Luckily, I've cleaned up since the last time he was here, so there weren't any outstanding sandwich wrappers or empty coffee cups.

Ok, I might be a little too proud of that "accomplishment".

"So here's the remaining budget, and the timeline for data collection. Currently, we don't have anyone else who's familiar with the program so we would have to train two new associates." He frowns. "It's not ideal, given the small window of time we have to write up the final report, but I can't think of any other option. All the other associates have been booked already, and the sites can't reschedule."

I rub my temples and feel the cogs in my brain turning. "And there's no way to have the two associates push back their PTO?"

He smiles wryly. "Not without coming across as cruel and unfeeling, no."

I wave my hand dismissively. "Kindness and understanding are overrated. I much prefer to bend people to my will."

He raises his eyebrows. "That explains why you and my dad get along so well."

"Where do you think I learned it from? Ok, well, this is certainly tricky. I can't really think of any immediate solutions right now. It's not like we can hire new staff and even so, we don't have enough time to train them," I reason, the slightest hint of frustration making its way to the surface.

Edward stares at me briefly, but I don't miss the flash of recognition on his face. "What?" I ask, curious. "Do you have something?"

"Good looks, a great head of hair, and a winning personality," he quips, making me smile. "But I think I might have a solution-we can just go."

I blink. "You want us to go to the sites and conduct the interviews? Wouldn't that be more expensive?"

He hands me the budget sheets, and I scan the numbers quickly. "It'll be close, but I think we can make it work. We might have to pay out of pocket for meals, but everything else should be covered by the company."

Damn it, he's right.

Then again, why am I being so resistant? I loved interacting with people (professionally), and missed some of the unique aspects of data collection. The rush of getting information from the source and manipulating it during data analysis was pure research fuel, unlike the balancing of budgets and managing of junior staff.

So maybe it's not a professional reason. Maybe I just don't want to travel with him.

Still, at least for the time being, it seems that this is the best option.

I take a deep breath and pass back the papers. "I'll let Carl know and double check with admin. Once I get the confirmation, we can let the sites know and then work on booking tickets and hotels."

He nods and I resist the urge to show him out the door. "That sounds reasonable. So, how was your weekend?" He asks this casually, and I have to remind myself that this was a normal, appropriate question to ask a co-worker.

'Well, Edward, I met up with the guy I was in love with who broke my heart and left, only to find out it was because of his ex, who was pregnant with her ex's child. I then drunkenly tortured myself over what to do, before passing out around 9 PM. But I also found an earring I'd been looking for a while now, so I think I call this weekend a win."

I plaster a smile on my face, ignoring the strain it takes to do so. "It was fine. Met up with some friends, hung out in the city. What about yours?"

He mirrors my expression. "Not bad. Went out to some bars in the Shaw area. Some were decent."

I'm not sure if it's the lack of sleep or just mental exhaustion that gets to me, but I let my mask slip for a second. I feel my gaze flicker down to my desk and my lips sag into a slight frown. It's not the most comfortable moment of vulnerability, but I can't help it; I'm just tired.

When I straighten up again, after that mere second, I'm taken aback at his concerned gaze. "Is everything ok?" he asks quietly, with the normal amount of hesitation.

"Everything's fine," I parrot. "Just some personal stuff, but I'll work through it. Sorry, I'll start on the paperwork for the trip now."

Sensing my dismissal to elaborate, he stands up and fixes his tie. Cerulean blue. Man, this guy really knows how to color coordinate. I can only imagine what he looks like in a tux (which I do, usually at night). Speaking of which-

"Are you going to the Correspondents' Dinner After Party?" I ask, half politely and half nosily.

He pauses and locks his green eyes with mine. "I don't know if I can skip it," he comments. "Doesn't look too great if the VP and son of the CEO doesn't show up, does it?"

I smirk. "Oh come on. I'm sure Carlisle wouldn't mind. Plus, you're a grown man. You can do anything your heart desires."

I meant it as a joke, or maybe even a jab at his privileged upbringing; instead, it comes out almost as a proposition, another challenge. His eyes darken again, and I feel the familiar bubble of unresolved sexual tension and electricity enclose us.

"You'd be surprised," he murmurs, the gravelly tone jolting me awake in ways I really don't need right now.

So I flash him a demure smile, not submitting but walking away-from this conversation, from his heated stare, and from the possibility of anything stupid.

It's quite possible we'll be alone together for a long weekend in Chicago, so I can't rock the boat. Not when it's already tipping over.

"I'll give you an update when I can," I respond evenly.

He retreats and walks to my door, and I ignore the urge to stare at his backside. I turn towards my computer instead, when I hear a knock.

"For the record, I think you're doing a great job," he admits. "And as long as I make sure to avoid walking in front of you, I think we can work well together." He winks and smiles, before retreating back to his office.

When he's out of sight, I drop my head onto my desk.

That's exactly what I'm afraid of.


	12. The Thin Red Line

UPDATE: Apparently, some users are having trouble posting reviews. If you can't find your review, please PM me; I'm not sure what's going on, and I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, but hopefully this gets resolved soon. In the meantime, as always, I'd love to hear what you all think; thanks so much!

*peeks from shrubs* So, it has been awhile, which is completely on me. **To help facilitate my updates in the future, I am excited to ask for a beta reader! If you're interested, PM me : )** It'd be great if you have some editing/previous beta-ing experience, but I'm pretty flexible as well. Bribes not required but strongly encouraged. In the form of cat pictures, please. Also, I'm looking to write something for the P.S. I Love You Contest ( /u/8203320/P-S-I-Love-You-Contest) Submissions open Nov. 5-26! Be sure to swing over and check it out!

Oh, Jasper. I'll miss writing from your broody, selfish, broken perspective. But all's well that ends well : )

The Thin Red Line

JPOV

"Come in," her soft voice lightly beckons, and I watch my feet step over the threshold and into her apartment. It's my first time here, so I scan her living room with detached interest, mostly because it feels like a stranger's room. There's barely a hint of her previous decorative tastes, aside from the numerous pillows neatly covering the beige couch in the center, almost mocking me.

Our apartment was fairly minimalist, almost staged to look like something from _Good Housekeeping_ or IKEA. But this-this is instantly intimate and personal. Various pieces of garage sale art and random knick knacks divide and conquer the surfaces, while brightly colored picture frames-some with macaroni-face me proudly. _Curious George, Goodnight Moon,_ and other children's classics are at the top of a stack of magazines and thicker books on the small table next to the couch.

These little things serve as constant reminders that this is a home. It may not be as glamorous as a glossy magazine spread, but it's real. In the corner next to the TV, there's an assortment of toys-stuffed animals, legos, even some kind of doll in an organized mess, and I notice with a start the toddler-sized sneakers and flip flops right next to the larger heels and flats on the shoe rack.

My heart squeezes involuntarily, and I swallow dryly to try and comprehend, for what I hope will be the last time, that Alice is now a mother.

Despite the legal definition of an adult as someone 18 years of age, it's laughable how naive and idealistic we can still be. Some of our ideas are harmless. We grow out of it the way we grow out of our old clothes, shedding personalities and majors and people effortlessly, focused in our search for the perfect fit. We set goals for ourselves and make plans so we have a direction at a time when it's ok to be directionless. The older we become, the more we learn to adjust our expectations, and set new benchmarks-but the one that always stings a bit is the realization that you are not who you set out to be.

At one point when we were dating, Alice and I did discuss children, and although I had always considered them a genetic responsibility rather than an emotional necessity, she convinced me that I might actually be a decent parent, despite all evidence to the contrary. Maybe that's why I entertained the idea of raising the child with her two years ago-not just to be with her, but to prove to myself that I could still be the man I once thought I would've been by now.

A good father and husband.

Alice appears in the doorway to the kitchen, and she smiles shakily. "Jasper," she greets, with a confusing amount of uncertainty and gratitude. "I'm so glad you made it." She's wearing a peach-colored sweater with some jeans, and I notice the messy bun atop her head with the bangs pinned back efficiently. Aside from some mascara, she doesn't have any other makeup on, and I see a faint flush rising from her collarbone. A small cluster of freckles dot her cheeks, and I absentmindedly wonder if she's been to the beach recently.

I place my phone in my pocket and manage a half-smile. "Thanks for having me over."

She gestures to the couch, where she hastily moves some pillows around and takes a seat. "How've you been?" She asks, crossing her knees with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

I take a seat next to her, maintaining a friendly distance that's probably more "ex" than "friend". "I've been better," I start tiredly. "Work has been slower than I thought, but I can handle it. Where's-uh-"

My voice breaks off awkwardly, but her responding smile is full of patience and understanding. "Anna? She's at a friend's house. It's difficult to hold a conversation with a toddler running around, so I thought it might be a good idea to drop her off."

My head jerks into a nod, and I look down. "Right. So she's...two?"

Idiot. How old would she be, 84?

Amusement works its way into Alice's voice, although the strong notes of caution are still there. "She is. It's kind of horrible, actually, because she's definitely living up to the terrible twos stereotype," she jokes, a soft smile lingering as she touches her collarbone, gently rubbing the skin. Her whole body is hunched a bit, curled into her petite frame, wariness weighing down each vertebra.

Now or never. I fake another smile out of sheer awkwardness, before lifting my gaze to meet hers. "This is probably years overdue," I start quietly. "But for what it's worth-I'm sorry about what happened between us. I wish that I had reached out and talked to you. I never meant to just leave and cut off contact."

It was definitely out of place, and perhaps unwisely so, but in light of my recent encounter with Bella, I couldn't help but discard the usual tiptoeing and say something real, even if it meant knocking her off balance.

Her face crumples a bit, as if she had been steeling herself for this conversation, but couldn't hold back completely. Her blue eyes start to take on a glassy sheen. "No, I understand. I-I-I honestly don't know if I blame you."

The seconds crawl by at an excruciating pace, but I see her start to rub her thumb and middle finger together, a familiar sign that she has more to say, so I simply wait. Although I reached out to her, two days after Bella's confession, I have no idea what to expect. What do I want from her now, after everything that had happened? Was I still in love with her, even though I knew we weren't right for each other? Do I want to find another reason to continue hating her, even at my own expense?

Sitting in her apartment, with all of the visual reminders, it slowly starts to dawn on me how selfish I've been. She's responsible for raising another human being, by herself, and I am wallowing over a breakup that happened almost a decade ago. Maybe we don't have to unravel every knot or smooth every wrinkle, but we do have to leave the mess behind.

"I could've told you directly, and I chose not to because I was scared of how you would react." She barks out a throaty laugh, rolling her eyes. "No, that's not true. Honestly, I was scared that you would feel obligated to stay, and I wouldn't have pushed you away."

Wait, what? My heart stops for a second before leaping into a frantic gallop, each beat faster than the last. "Did you want me to stay?" I force these words out of my mouth as quickly as they materialize in my mind, pretending they didn't play on an endless loop that dominated my sleepless nights.

Alice's lip trembles and her hand shakily brushes her hair behind her ear. She turns slightly away from me, and shifts her gaze to my left, clenching her jaw.

"After we broke up, my biggest fear was reaching out to you again and falling back into the same routine. Before I met Brandon-" She breaks off, biting the inside of her cheek the way she always does when she's feeling overwhelmed.

Her fingers dig into the fabric of the couch, and I watch the temporary indentations fade.

"I knew we were both miserable after our break-up, even though it had been the right choice," she continues quietly, reciting the same words that I'm sure we were both sick of hearing by now. "And I worried that we might not be able to get over each other. So I never allowed myself to entertain the idea of being friends with you, because I knew, deep down, that there was a chance we might want to start over."

A pleading expression dominates her features as she turns her head in my direction, and I see tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "And I couldn't take that chance."

She bites her lip, and her forehead wrinkles in concentration. "But then Brandon left me, and I found out I was pregnant. So I didn't think about how you might feel or what might happen when we were living together. None of all those previous insecurities or worries weighed me down, because all I knew is that I had to be the best goddamn parent in the world, and never let my child feel she or he was missing something without a father."

One blink, then two. Twin teardrops race down her cheeks, and I see her. Not as the stone cold bitch who broke my heart, or the idealistic girl I had been crazy about, but as a strong and protective woman who only wanted the best for her daughter.

Alice takes a shuddering breath, and picks at a tassel hanging from a pillow. "But I also didn't want to be alone, so I didn't tell you. I didn't consider that you might get attached or want to try again until I realized it was too late, and in the process, I hurt you. And for that, I am truly sorry, Jasper."

I wait for the rising panic that causes the shortness of breath, and the darkness floating in the edges of my vision, but nothing happens. Nausea brushes me lightly, but I shut my eyes and run my fingers through my hair. "I know."

A slow resignation steadily climbs its way upward, pulling me down, and I picture myself sinking slowly, down, down, down. It's not a wholly unfamiliar sensation, only this time my muscles aren't static and my limbs don't feel locked together.

I can move, and I can fight back.

So I open my eyes again. And I know how to cast off the weights that have held both of us down for so long.

"Forgive yourself, Alice," I respond gently. "I already have. We're both looking for something that we think we can get from or give to each other-but there's nothing there but unnecessary pain. Hurting ourselves is not going to help either of us move on."

My vision starts to blur but my voice grows stronger, almost as if I stumbled upon the solution in the dark, but only started to understand once I let in the light. "You will always be the girl I once pictured spending my life with," I confess hoarsely. "The girl who made me feel like the happiest guy in school even when I was being the biggest idiot."

She laughs mid-sob, wrinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes.

My lips draw up at the corners for what feels like the first time, and I reach over to grasp her hand. "But those aren't reasons to be together, they're moments that happened a long time ago." I squeeze gently.

"They're intense and important and all-consuming, but they didn't last. It was real, though. We were real. For a moment. But we both owe it to ourselves to let those moments stay moments, so we can appreciate them as part of our past. And it's not because we don't care or it has less value-it's because we both deserve so much more than moments."

I wish I could say that the words have an instant, almost magical cathartic effect on me. I wish that I suddenly knew exactly what I have to do or stop doing to be better. But like Bella said, there isn't any immediate relief, just a sense that I needed to be different, and more importantly, that I could.

Suddenly, I'm enveloped by lithe limbs and warm skin. "I missed you," Alice whispers. "And truly...I hope you'll be happy."

I wrap my arms around her. "I know. You too, Alice."

And that was that.

BPOV

Ding ding!

I jostle around the small seat of the airplane, feeling for the seat buckle with the belt coiled around my hips.

Air travel: You think the anxiety stops when you leave the airport?

I quickly buckle myself with the finesse of a three year old, cursing my horrible hand eye coordination. There's a reason I stuck with music and the arts in high school and never looked back. I don't even pick the shoe in Monopoly and I only exercise because I see it as a cruel and unusual punishment for my late night snacking habits.

Don't even get me started on the tunnel vision food rage characteristics of PMS; I swear I've blacked out and woken up curled around a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

"Hashtag no shame," I mutter under my breath.

"Did you just say the word hashtag out loud?" The obnoxious yet honeyed tone of my fellow site visitor registers next to me, and I brush away the automatic irritation upon my noticing that his voice sounds like the narrator of some fancy ice cream commercial. You know, the ones with close ups of drizzling chocolate with captions like, "Live your fantasies. Dare to soar. _Exotic ice cream bar brand name_."

I simply face him and shrug.

"Sorry not sorry," I respond lightly. "So should we go over the plan now, or did you want to rest?"

Edward purses his lips and considers for a moment, before answering, "Let's go over it now since we've got the time."

"Sure," I say cheerily, glad to find a way to occupy the time despite sitting so closely to him I can practically feel his thigh brush against mine. Why was the man so tall and encompassing? Neither Esme nor Carl were particularly tall, so what the hell? Or was the plane extra small? Did we get a mini-Boeing?

Back to reality. "So we need to hit three high schools in Chicago-Northview, Alton, and Turner High. They've been testing the peer-led intervention for a year, so our job is to conduct focus groups with the students who've been involved and administer some surveys. The script is really straightforward-we just want to get a sense of how they've been implementing the program, why they think it's valuable or not, the barriers they've faced, and any recommendations or plans for continued participation."

He scratches his chin and nods. "That's acceptable. We have two hours, right?"

I nod. "Yes, and we'll be meeting the health teachers by the entrance of the schools."

Although there's been an increase of programs that address teen pregnancy and STI risk since the 1990s, peer-led programs are still relatively novel and more importantly, hardly evaluated. Theoretically, it seems like a good idea-teens educating other teens about safe sex. But the literature showed their effectiveness is mixed, at best, which is why this evaluation was necessary. BoyzIIMen was unique in that teachers nominated different students for the program, and each teen had the opportunity to become familiar with a section and lead a discussion. The program had several different elements, which were generally divided into biological, psychological, and sociological factors. Yours truly had contributed generously to the each section, and I couldn't wait to hear the feedback.

Edward glances over at me. "This was your program, right? Carl mentioned this was for your thesis?"

I take a deep breath and smile sarcastically. "Yeah, it was for my doctorate, or what I like to call my four years of hell," I half-joke, half-vent. "Don't get me wrong, I loved my topic, and I'm thrilled it was implemented a few years later. But I just remember feeling so burnt out at the time, so I couldn't fully appreciate it."

He purses his lips, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "It's difficult to appreciate anything except being done when you're in the thick of it. I felt a bit of that when I was in grad school, too."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? Somehow I pictured more cigar smoking and monocle wearing. The occasional strip club."

He shoots me a sardonic look. "Yeah, being in business school basically meant I was a mobster from the 1920s."

I grin teasingly. "That wasn't a no."

He smirks. "No, it wasn't."

I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Ok, so we're meeting with Northview today at 4 PM, and then Alton and Turner High tomorrow, back to back, from 4-6. I figured we can split for that one, since they couldn't find any other time and we don't have enough in our budget to stay for another day," I explain, outlining the game plan for our stay.

This is appropriate, but selfishly, it's also to remind myself that this trip is a STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL WORK FUNCTION. Just because we would both be in the same hotel in what some people have called a "vibrant, thriving city" (damn you, Forbes Magazine) with our nights most likely unoccupied, does not mean I could start thinking about possibilities. Crazy, insanely hot possibilities that involved me getting fucked against an elevator wall.

Nope. Not happening.

Edward taps at the screen in front of him, lazily scanning the media entertainment options. "Good. I'm fine with the plan."

I underline the directions to the school, and made a few notes. "Ok, so for the script, I think we can expand a bit more on the question asking them about how the tools used in the curriculum informed their understanding compared to less fixed and unverified sources, like the Internet. What do you think?"

He leans back and nods. "Sure, I think that's a reasonable follow-up. A focus group works best when you don't stick so strictly to a script and allow the conversation to flow organically. So hopefully we won't need to use the script extensively."

I frown. "The whole point of having the script is to make sure the conversations are producing collectible data. We only have two hours, and a lot to get through, so I think it's important we try to stick to it as closely as possible."

He turns toward me and crosses his arms, a slightly impatient look on his face. I wait for him to stomp his foot and pout, but apparently that's where he draws the line. "I understand where you're coming from, but I think the more scripted we sound, the less likely we'll get any responses from them, considering they're all high school students who are talking to two researchers about sex."

His point lands faintly in the non-petty caverns of my brain, but I consciously refuse to concede. "Why don't we just start with the script and if no one's talking, we can try something different."

I see his jaw clench briefly before his bright green gaze assesses me inquisitively. "You realize that technically, I'm your boss, right?"

An old fashioned pissing contest. A smile tugs at my lips, and I hold back laughter. "And you realize that I've seen your embarrassing childhood photos, courtesy of your parents, right?"

A exaggerated solemn look settles on his face, and he purses his lips. "Fair enough. I didn't think you were the type to blackmail her boss."

"Because I'm such a nonviolent office peon?"

He barely manages to suppress his laugh into a cough. "Hardly. I just thought you'd be more creative."

"Oh, I'm very creative," I say much too coyly, realizing too late how suggestive it sounds, especially at his raised eyebrow.

"I played the flute in high school," I add hastily.

Nice. Definitely saved that one.

A sly expression snakes its way on his stupidly attractive face, which causes my bullshit alarm to blare in my head. Or more accurately, my jackass alarm. "Ah, you were the quiet, nerdy girl who became extremely attractive once she took off her glasses and styled her hair differently," he speculates, tilting his head and squinting as if he were picturing it.

WARNING, WARNING. JACKASS IN SIGHT. RESOLVE WITH PHYSICAL ACTION OR AN EXTREME DOSE OF SASS.

I make a show of flipping my hair and shooting him a confident smile. "Actually, I was the girl who slept with the homecoming king and flipped off his cheerleader girlfriend right after it happened. We were in the back of his car, so we lost points for originality, but on the bright side, I now know how roomy the back of a Corvette is."

He considers my words like a defiant six year old who was just told something unbelievable and now demanded proof. "Lies. Corvettes are notoriously cramped."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Speaking as someone whose leg fell asleep because he was slowly getting crushed by heavy sports equipment."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not dramatic."

"I agree. It's one of my many attractive qualities."

A weird sound escapes my lips, and I'm half-horrified and half-shocked to hear that it's a giggle. Not one of those fake sounding, eyelash-fluttering, vomit-inducing sounds, but a genuinely girlish sound of happy warmness. I forgot how much fun it is to flirt, without any hidden motives or the feeling of going through motions that serve as a prelude for forgettable sex. Strictly professional? Probably not. But our whatevership had somehow morphed into something light and easy, and I wondered if I could cling to this island of newly found normalcy with each violent wave of ancient history that crashed into me.

"No, I was…competitive and driven in high school. I think I struck fear into the hearts of my teachers, especially after an exam. I was that obnoxious, know-it-all who would argue for a few points back on a quiz. I think I felt a collective sigh of relief from my victims when I graduated. And one teacher who supposedly fainted from heat stroke, but I always thought it was out of gratitude."

Edwards chuckles, unsurprised. "That's appropriate. I just remember how awkward high school was, navigating through all of the cliques and hormones."

I shoot him a "you've got to be fucking kidding me" look. "Weren't you captain of the football and debate teams?"

"It was actually crew."

"Ahhh," I nod in fake understanding. "You were the sensitive jock who just wanted to dance or paint or express his feelings, but was repressed by the high school politics and felt trapped by the cage of toxic masculinity." I pat his arm lightly, ignoring the urge to flinch at touching him. Ok, it was his sleeve, but still. I made contact. "It's ok, this is a safe space. I can see if the flight attendant has tissues."

He drops his head down and sighs heavily. "It was a difficult time. Thanks for understanding."

Right. "Personal tangents aside, do you have any questions about the script or the schedule?" I ask, retracing the line in the sand with my stick furiously, watching it sink deeper and deeper.

And that's when he does it. He pulls back a bit and narrows his eyes, as if he notices something different but can't quite figure out what it is. It's not the look of a concerned co-worker; it's the look of someone who is prepared to spend time and energy to solve a puzzle, and go through countless combinations to do so. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking, or at worst, an almost scientific curiosity, but I suddenly realize once again how quickly our budding whatevership can escalate.

Line.

Still, I don't look away from his unabashed curiosity but allow him to take his fill. I allow him to see that I'm not hiding anything. I allow him to think that I'm not intriguing enough to flirt with or broken enough to be fixed.

The fabric of his dress pants, which had been brushing against my bare leg, shifts suddenly until I feel the full weight of his leg against mine-one, two, three seconds-and then he crosses it over his other one.

My entire body tenses, and I grip the sides of the tiny armrests between us. I bite the inside of my cheek, and revel in the curiosity that flares up in his gaze, before he looks away. "No. I'm fine with everything." Breezy nonchalance thinly veils a confusingly threatening tone underneath. Threatening what, though? A conversation to establish boundaries? A one night stand to get rid of this weird tension? Or something different that made me feel like-

Stop. Your life is complicated enough right now. You don't need to be feeling anything you can't describe in concrete terms.

"Good," I reply pleasantly, wishing that I could offer more. But I had ignored the warning signs before and was still recovering from the consequences. As much as I want to have a moment of weakness or blissful ignorance-the accelerated pulse, the prolonged gazes, and the inappropriate sexual thoughts? They remind me to keep drawing that line as harshly as possible, continuously breaking the smooth surface of the sand, even as the rising tide makes its way upward, hinting at the futility of my efforts.

And that was that.


	13. PART II

PART II


	14. The First Time

**Hey everyone! This chapter could've been split up, given the length, but I decided to include all of it since, eh you've all waited long enough. I suspect that I might have accidentally screwed up the reviews last time when I removed a couple of chapters and then uploaded new chapters under the same chapter number. Long story short, I'm too paranoid to take down any chapters, which is why I revised my weird AN last chapter to "PART II", since technically that's where we are in the story. Also, some lemony zest in this chapter :) Happy Monday!**

The First Time

 **Six Years Ago**

 _We both stumbled into his apartment, our laughter bouncing off of the minimalist, grey walls, fueled by the events of the night and the many, many drinks. I looped my arm into his, and he bent down to kiss me lightly. Our lips curled upward at the same moment, causing our smiles to imprint themselves perfectly against each other. Like a ballerina on crack, I twirled once, twice, before hitting his bed, my hair fanning everywhere like a wild wind of darkness. I watched him shake his head, chuckling, before shrugging off his coat onto the ottoman beside him. My hands found the buttons on my coat to take it off, excitement buzzing through my veins while a small rose of anxiety bloomed in my stomach._

" _Here, let me help you," Jasper offered, his eyes darkening when he saw my slinky red dress underneath. Lust spread in a spider-web formation like a drop of ink that hits soft parchment. His eyes trailed down my body, his fingers gently brushing against my arms, and I shivered again from the sensation. It's not like we haven't done this before or gone further, but tonight was different. Tonight there were no lines to be drawn, and no last minute reminders._

 _When you tell people you're a virgin past a certain age, the automatic assumptions are that you're extremely religious, asexual, or sexually repressed. Basically, there's something wrong with you. Well, sorry to disappoint, but my reason for never having had sex by 25 was relatively simple: I hadn't found someone who I trusted enough to sleep with. Plus, my friends' first times didn't convince me I had missed out, so I resorted to trashy romance novels, porn, and my trusty vibrator to satisfy any sexual urges. Jasper was the first man that I was wildly attracted to and also trusted, which made me believe that he was a perfect first time candidate, if there was ever such a thing._

 _Still, now that we were both naked and in his bed, a condom being retrieved from the nightstand, fear began to dampen my excitement. Instead of feeling like someone who would soon join a pretty awesome club, I felt like my body was foreign territory that was about to be invaded._

 _The obligatory foreplay silenced my doubts momentarily, until Jasper settled his body on top of mine, and brushed back my hair. "I can hear those cogs turning," he teased. "What are you thinking about?"_

 _I let go of the bottom lip I'd been biting and flashed a nervous smile. "Nothing. Just, um-go slow, ok?" I allowed him a rare glimpse of the nervous teenager buried underneath the adult-like mask._

 _Understanding dawned in his eyes, no doubt recalling the first time I told him I was still a virgin. "Of course," he whispered, his nose gently rubbing against mine. "I've got you."_

 _And that was it. There was no more talking, only gasps and moans and skin moving against skin. I hadn't expected extreme pleasure or promises of love, but I couldn't help but feel the cold wave of disappointment arriving with my anti-climatic finish. It's only after he collapsed next to me, gently nuzzling my neck as his breaths evened out, when I realized that I had wanted more._

 _Stop it, I remember scolding myself. You wanted to get rid of your virginity, and you did it tonight with Jasper. I ignored the hollowness I felt towards the clinical nature of the act and forced myself to accept that this was what real sex was-practiced movements designed for a fleeting glimpse of pleasure._

 _All that romantic bullshit you see and read isn't real._

 _And so I pretended that I was just a girl who gave a piece of herself to a boy she cared for, even if she could only concentrate on the emptiness left behind._

…

 _A light breeze gently blew across my body, lightly tickling my hair. I blinked slowly, and heard the soft purring of the air conditioning unit, so different from the ancient, croaking one in my apartment. My mascara cracked like a face mask that's been applied for too long, and blurry colorful shapes settled into their outlines with each forced blink, similar to when an optometrist flicks the switch to test various lenses and asks you which one is clearer. I shivered before turning around, a lazy smile ready for the naked Jasper beside me._

 _So this is what it's like, I mused. The morning after._

 _A deep vibration emitted next to me, and I shifted quietly to grab my phone on the glass countertop littered with keys, a torn condom wrapper, and two untouched glasses of water. The black conventional alarm clock told me it was 9:30 AM, and I rolled my eyes in annoyance, wishing I could've slept in more considering we both got back to this apartment around 4 in the morning. No doubt I would have to take a nap sometime later that day._

 _I quickly glanced at Jasper's back, steadily rising and falling, and concluded he was still asleep. Perfect. Like a sixteen year old after prom, I unlocked my phone and frantically typed, "So….it happened. And it wasn't that bad." Focus on the positives, right? I took a screenshot of the Lonely Island's "I Just Had Sex" and sent it off, giggling at my utter ridiculousness._

 _Sheets rustled and I turned my head to see him, half-lidded, dark blonde hair tousled, his chest on display. "Hey," he greeted hoarsely, placing his hand under his chin, working his jaw around. I slid my phone under the pillow and mirrored his gesture, a bright smile ready. "Hi," I squeaked, heart in my throat, one hand making figure eights in the space between us._

" _How are you feeling?" He asked casually, stifling a yawn. My smile grew bigger, possibly a bit psychotically. "Not as bad as I thought I'd be," I reported teasingly. "Not too sore, but the day's still young." Don't let him see you freak out, I frantically reminded myself. It's just sex. It's not a big deal. Like always, I tried to avoid becoming the clingy, hysterical stereotype, and ignored the panic clinging to my insides towards his review of last night. He nodded, before closing his eyes again._

 _My forehead wrinkled in confusion, and the continuous cold air elicited another shiver. Was this his dismissal? Did he expect me get dressed, pack everything up, and leave?_

 _Shame burned like an ulcer in my gut, and I swallowed. "So, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Want me to make something?" Please tell me what you want to do._

 _He didn't stir. "Didn't go grocery shopping, so nothing's in the fridge."_

 _Inch by inch, I slid back down into the pillows, trying to make myself as small as I feel._

" _Oh, ok."_

 _An awkward pause lingered in the space between us, and I ached to cross over and touch him. But we had only been dating for a few weeks, and I wasn't sure if I could be that forward. I wasn't sure if he wanted me to be that forward._

 _I wasn't sure, really, of anything._

 _Suddenly, dark blue invaded my vision as he yawned again and stretched. Aside from the immediate jolt of lust I got from the sight, a curious thought occurred to me-did he feel the same longing when he saw my naked body? The question caused me to stiffen, but he didn't notice. Nonchalance engineered his every move-getting out of bed naked, walking over to the bathroom, and turning the water on, while I sat in his bed, sheets clutched up to my shoulders._

 _Had last night been a mistake? Can I ask how he felt? What did I do now?_

 _An old T-shirt and pajama pants flew to my right, and I jerked up to see Jasper buttoning his shirt. "There's a coffee shop down the corner of the street with the best coffee in D.C.," he said. "Do you want to put those on? I assume you won't want to wear what you had on last night."_

 _His tone was friendly, cordial, even. It's like he'd completely forgotten what happened last night, and now I was in the uncomfortable position of feeling defensive towards giving him my virginity, which I had valued as much as my appendix. Still, I smiled shakily and changed, before we left his apartment. There was no kiss, no handholding, no touching as we walked side by side. Maybe this is how relationships work, I defended pleadingly. Maybe all of that stuff is just fake, something seen in movies and romance novels. If I wanted to be with Jasper, then I would have to adjust my expectations, I decided._

 _Everything was fine._

"Ok, yeah, you're being insane."

"I know," I grumble-groan into the hotel pillow, and then scrunch my nose as I question how clean it is.

"You're overthinking this by a lot," Rosalie observes. "Like the time you decided to spend over a hundred dollars on a Taylor Swift costume. For a house party. In Maryland."

"Ah, the great Bad Blood Debacle," I say, my voice still muffled.

"Yupp. Followed by the Great Halloween Hangover of 2012," She reminisces, an almost wistful tone in her voice. "I don't think we can become kidney donors anymore because of that party."

My chuckles vibrate through the soft fabric, and I sit up and swing my legs forward off the bed. "I just remember how awkward it all was. You invited Emmett, or the guy you had a crush on, your ex who you were still hooking up with, his two friends who barely spoke any English, and me, who you'd just met two weeks ago."

"No wonder I got so shitfaced," she reasons sarcastically. "That was the night you grabbed me by the shoulders and drunkenly yelled at me to choose between Emmett and Royce, and the night I finally ended things with him." She pauses, and I picture the amused look on her face. "That night cemented our bond of friendship, you know."

"So you're telling me it's too late to bail?"

"I'm telling you to expect looking at retirement properties in a couple of years."

I laugh and the knot in my chest loosens. No one could make me feel better than Rose, and put up with all my drama. Her piece of shit ex royce (who shall remain lowercase) had been emotionally and physically abusive, and I considered myself lucky to have been there towards the end when she finally broke free.

I remember holding her while she cried on my shoulder, empty wine bottles strewn about my apartment, until dehydration finally caught up to her. I remember how gentle and patient Emmett was with her during their initial dates, giving her as much space as possible, even though he wasn't exactly hurting for female attention and was frankly, a huge flirt. I remember warning him that Rose wasn't the type to play games and if he wanted her because she didn't immediately fall for his charms, then he should just walk away.

But most importantly, I remember him looking me in the eye, uncharacteristically serious, as he replied softly, "You're her friend and her family, so I get that you want to protect her. I'm just asking for a chance to do the same. Because even though she might not believe me right now, I don't have the choice to walk away anymore."

I pursed my lips and nodded tersely, resisting the extreme urge to squeal, hug him, and exclaim, "WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, BRO."

"Yeah, that was...a memorable night," I tentatively compromise, and then remember something else. "And then I met Jasper a week later."

Pause. "Right," she affirms slowly. "So any new developments?"

I flop back on my bed with a full-body sigh. "Not really. I'm still trying to decide where to go from last weekend."

"Hmmm…" Rose hums, and I hear the fridge open. "Well, just make sure that it's not because you still have feelings for him and want to try again. Because if that's even a little true, then you and I and the universe all know that you shouldn't see him again."

I stop making hotel bed angels with my arms and legs, and laugh sharply. "How do you do that? How do you know exactly what to ask?" It was both creepy and reassuring.

She chuckles. "Ask my therapist."

I roll my eyes before reaching up to punch the pillow. "It's not. We tried, we failed. End of that story. But friends? I mean, is it so crazy that I'm considering it?"

I hear crunching on the other side of the phone. "Crazier things have happened."

"That's it? No other deep, insightful questions?"

More crunching and then a straw being sucked. "I'm all out. Ask again later."

I scrunch my nose. "Are you eating junk food? I hear chips and soda at least." Considering how health conscious Rose was, this was certainly surprising.

Another crunch and swallow. "Yeah, I don't really get it either. I've just been having this craving for desserts, and sugary snacks. You should see the damage I did to a pack of Oreos this morning."

A tingle occurs somewhere in the region of my uterus, but I refrain from freaking her out. At least not over the phone. No, I want to see her face in person when I suggest my theory. And maybe snap a picture.

Because, you know, what are friends for?

She sighs contentedly, the satisfaction of carbs and sugar hitting her before the regret will later. "Ok, back to the original topic. I just googled your boss and holy shit. You're both single, right? Why haven't you fu-I mean, asked him to lunch yet? IHS isn't exactly a stranger to couples working together."

It was true-in fact, some of the Board members were married to each other. Carlisle had always made sure IHS prioritized the employees just as much as the clients, and that created an open, comfortable atmosphere where any potential issues could be resolved quickly and efficiently. Sure, there were still a few assholes but once that became common knowledge, they would stop getting work and eventually leave on their own. I love the culture at IHS, except right now, when I can't use it as an excuse.

I glance at the clock and notice that it's almost time to leave for the school. Stretching my arms above my head, I sleepily reply, "No fucking clue. Well, that's not true. Nothing can happen between Edward and me."

"Careful, you're calling him by his first name now," Rosalie wryly notes. "Pretty soon you'll be stalking him on Facebook."

I scoff. "I think I have more self-control than that." Probably. Maybe. Actually, I haven't checked my profile in so long that I've forgotten my password. One of the many ways my life has improved since quitting social media-appearing less petty than I actually am.

"I don't understand why you don't take advantage of your surroundings," She continues. "You're both clearly attracted to each other, and you're in a great city. Why not just have dinner together and see what happens?"

For a few seconds, I allow myself to picture this image. Shamelessly, my breathing quickens just a bit and a warm sensation blooms in my chest, causing it to flush.

"You're picturing it, and you don't hate it, do you?" Her smug tone interrupts my little movie in my head.

"Yes, he's not...unfortunate looking," I admit painfully. "But that doesn't automatically make him a great catch."

"So it's just physical?" She asks, curious. "Don't tell me you still hate him."

I ponder her question. "It's mostly physical, obviously, but he's not as much of a jerk as I originally thought. And the worst part is, we have banter. Good banter. Gilmore Girls banter."

"Wow."

"Yeah. But the last guy I had chemistry with was also the last person I should have started dating. Chemistry isn't everything; in fact, sometimes it's really the worst thing."

I can hear Rose roll her eyes. "Ok, I think you can reel it in a bit, Meryl Streep. Look, I understand that you don't want to be with anyone right now, and if ignoring both of them truly made you happy and helped you move on, then I'd be all for it. But it sounds like the harder you try to push them away, the more miserable you feel. And I get that you're just protecting yourself from something hurtful in the future, but you also can't keep anticipating that the worse case scenarios will happen. At some point, you're still just getting in your own way."

Spoke like a woman who was in therapy for two years. I slowly slide off the bed and walk to the window, pacing back and forth. "So I just pretend that everything will be ok? I don't know if I can do that, Rose. I don't want to be a cynical, bitter stereotype, but I can't go back to believing that relationships are amazing and love is grand. I've felt the butterflies in the stomach and done the morning after breakfasts, and now I can't help but see them as warning signs."

I run my hand through my hair, trying to rein the turbulence of my emotions. "I don't know if I can trust someone without wondering how I'd feel if and when they fuck me over."

A comfortable silence lingers between us as we both ponder my words. There's a trace of sadness present-the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you bend from the weight.

The kind that comes from not knowing the answer to the question but understanding the consequences for having asked it in the first place.

I move until I'm inches away from the giant window of my hotel room, watching all of the faint lights flicker from the cars below while miniatures of people scurry around. I place my hand on the cold pane, and wait until the tremor fades into stillness, like a pond that restores itself after an interruption to its surface.

"This brings me back to my original statement: you're overthinking this. It's a chronic condition for neurotic types like us, Bella. Go have dinner with your boss, and just enjoy it. It can be that simple."

Rain starts to pelt the glass, insistently tapping out a rhythm, complemented by echoes of thunder. I lean into the surface, putting my weight on my hand, before pushing back and walking to the other side of the room.

I know she's right, even if it is slightly impossible to ignore the vague uncertainty I feel when he and I are together. "You're right," I breathe. "I'm going to take it one day at a time, and try to stay out of my head."

"You're going to avoid Edward and turn off your phone in case Jasper calls," She translates.

I frown. "Ok, I was having a moment, and you just ruined it. Plus, you and I both know Jasper doesn't call. He never reaches out."

"Will you?"

Knock knock.

I look up hastily, and realize that it's probably Edward. "I'll see you later, Rose. Thanks for listening, as always."

"No problem. I'll follow-up with you about that question, and uh, Emmett says to get him a souvenir, maybe something from Wrigley Field."

I pack my bag and make sure all of the research materials are inside. "Sure, I hope he likes their gum," I respond quickly. "Gotta go. Bye."

Once everything is accounted for, I place my cellphone in my bag and open the door. "Ready?" I ask, a bit winded. Edward straightens from the wall he was leaning on, and with his light blue cotton shirt and dark washed jeans, looks every inch a model for Calvin Klein or Burberry. Fall catalogue, CEO chic.

He steadies the strap of his bag and I, a true professional, try to ignore the way his arms flex, even under a dress shirt. Why was he working out so hard? Couldn't he resent exercise like the rest of us mortals and pretend to do it while secretly going to happy hours instead?

I snap out of my observation which luckily, he doesn't seem to notice on account of his staring at my top like it's some other worldly artifact, although I have no idea why. It's a simple red hoodie that I haven't worn in awhile but it was casual, and ok, it made me look younger.

Every time a teen called me "ma'am", I died a little inside. So sue me for indulging myself.

"You look...nice," he says, sounding as awkward as my prom date, who cried when he saw my bra and had to call his mom afterwards. I wish I were kidding.

"Thanks," I reply neutrally, and sweep my hair over my shoulder, trying to ignore the way his eyes follow the motion.

We both head to the stairs, where he pushes open the door and I change the subject, asking, "Do you have the directions to the school?"

"In the front seat of the rental."

I nod, and we both walk out of the hotel silently, a few feet of distance between us. This time a new type of tension replaces the usual kind, and I realize that we're in the middle of an awkward silence. My lip curls as we head into the parking lot, because I realize I hate this. I hate that this has replaced our verbal volleying just because of my baggage, or in Rose's words, my overthinking.

When we reach the car, I can't help but laugh out loud.

He shoots me an exasperated look. "It was the last car available." This does not make my giggles go away.

"Get in," he mutters, opening the door for me.

A few stray chuckles escape me as I climb into the bright yellow, Volkswagen Beetle.

…

Northview High School is the second biggest charter school in Chicago, with over 3,500 faculty and students. Like most other schools in the city, the campus is composed of large blocks of buildings stapled together, columns neatly stacked on top of other columns. The afternoon sun reflects off of the long, rectangular windows that are methodically cut, the edges clearly defined like lenses for glasses. There are a few pieces of abstract art on the front lawn, complementing the kind-of-messy but not exactly overgrown hedges that line the entrance of the school. A few students linger outside of the gate that outline the school, laughing and shivering from the ever present midwestern wind.

It reminds me of the school in Hey Arnold!, which makes me automatically fall in love with it on the spot.

"Ready?" Edward asks, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

"Let's go," I reply. We walk to the entrance of the school and text our contact, Angela, that we've arrived. The resulting buzz allows us to open the door and escape the increasingly chilly weather, and we both walk towards the classroom where the participants of the program are gathered.

Angela Weber, the health teacher and program coordinator, is a petite brunette in her late twenties. She greets us with a tired but intrigued smile. "Hi, and welcome," she says quietly, her muted tone nonetheless carrying a note of excitement. "Thanks so much for coming. How was your flight?"

Relieved that she wasn't the super perky type, I genuinely return her smile and respond, "Not too bad. Thank you for taking the time to meet us and set this up."

"Not at all," she replies demurely. "Let's meet your audience, shall we?"

I step into the room, and even though I know there are two other people behind me, my feet stop. It's a surreal experience, being back in a classroom after having left it for so long. Aside from some fancy technology, like a Smart projector at the front of the room and an iPad on the cabinet in the corner, everything is a flashback. The plastic chairs connected to those tiny wooden desks that can barely hold a notebook, various posters that advertise common courtesy and tips on adopting healthier habits, and huge whiteboards that stretch across the wall, scribbled with different dates and assignments.

I clear my throat and ignore the pang of nostalgia that hits me, and face the students. It's a junior/senior health class, so most of the students there are around 16-17 years old. Almost twenty pairs of eyes stare at me, and I shake off the initial stage fright.

"Hi," I begin. "Thanks for coming tonight. My name's Bella and I'm here with my partner, Edward from International Health Solutions, or IHS. We're going to be moderating a discussion with you guys about Boyz2Men, so we can get some information about what you think about the program-what works, what doesn't, and what should be included. I think your teacher, Ms. Weber, mentioned this to you, right?"

I try to find the balance between nonchalant yet informative, authoritative yet comfortable. It's a bit difficult since I haven't spoken to a teenager since I was one, and I'm more familiar with presenting facts and research to a team of experts (re: usually old white guys in suits-and Carl).

They stare back at me with varying degrees of interest, mostly unimpressed with my performance. A redhead in the front crosses his arms defiantly, with a degree of petulance that only a teenager can perfect, as if to further confirm how much they don't care.

The hazy glow of the past fades as I suddenly realize I'm spending a Saturday afternoon in a high school classroom with a bunch of teenage boys asking them about sex.

Being hungover in a coffee shop in Georgetown never seemed so appealing.

I clap my hands together and grin like a deranged cheerleader. "Ok, so let's rearrange our desks in a circle, and get started."

As you can probably guess, there's barely any movement. I think one kid's foot twitches, which is probably teenage boy angst speak for "fuck off". Luckily, Angela steps in. "Come on, guys, don't make me look bad," she teases, with a hint of warning. A few kids grunt and grumble, but slowly get up and start to move the desks together.

Edward grabs the seat across from me, and introduces himself to his neighbor, the redheaded boy. "Nice to meet you," he says, shaking the boy's hand. "What's your name?"

He assesses Edward the way my grad school roommate's cat used to when I came home at three in the morning. Judgmental bitch. "Steven," is the cool reply. "My friends call me Steve though." And there's the next president of Alpha Kappa Psi, I add sarcastically, taking in his backwards baseball cap and DUKE sweatshirt.

You're the adult, I remind myself. Be the adult.

Edward smirks a bit, as if knowing he clearly doesn't have the privilege to call him by his nickname but doesn't give a shit. "Hey, Steve. Your teacher tells me that Antonio's has the best pizza in town, but I heard that's actually Little Gino's. You know which one is better?" He leans back, spreading his body to drape over the small chair, and crosses his legs-the picture of ease. He sounds like he's talking to a stranger at a bar, chatting them up with just enough genuine interest so they're comfortable enough to open up about their day.

Damn it, he's good.

Steve sits up, even puffing his chest a little, before casually replying, "Gino's is pretty dope." A few scattered murmurs echo his choice. Edward nods. "Oh, I forgot to tell mention that I'm not a fan of deep dish, since I'm not into pizza that's a bread bowl with tomato soup. That's not a problem, right?"

My mouth drops open in shock. What the hell? How was insulting Chicago going to help them open up to us?

While I struggle with a response, Steve tenses and narrows his eyes. A few of his friends lean forward, and a tension lingers in the air. I feel like I'm witnessing some kind of initiation, even though Edward continues to look unaffected, holding Steve's stare and flexing his fingers on the desk.

Suddenly, Steve starts chuckling. It's quiet at first, almost disbelieving, but there's an immediate break from the previous atmosphere before, as if some weird truce has been achieved. I almost want to wipe my forehead even though I was still a cold from the outside.

"That's funny," Steve relents. "It's a good thing I don't take anyone from D.C. seriously. Kinda like the rest of the country."

OH SNAP. POLITICAL BURN. I resist the urge to do a z-snap in Edward's direction, and instead shoot the not-so-dimwitted fratboy an impressed look.

Edward laughs this time, before taking out his notes and a recorder. I quickly do the same, realizing it was time to get started. Unfortunately, I see Steve eye the recorder cautiously, and a few of the other kids stiffen.

Oh, what the hell. I announce, "Tell you what. Just so you can prove us wrong-why don't we talk for an hour and then take a break? I can order pizza from both of those places and we can decide which is better."

A wave of appreciative nods and even a fist pump from the guy in the red sweatshirt in the back renews my confidence, and I know we're ready.

"Let's get started," I say happily, turning on the recorder. I look across the room to see Edward smile, and I can't help but return the gesture, with something that's maybe a little more than pride.

Damn it.

…

"You know, I think my vote's for Antonio's. I mean, this crust is like the seventh wonder of the world."

"There already are seven wonders of the world."

Wiseass. I shoot him a disdainful look. "It's called teamwork, Edward. Thanks for having my back."

"I think we're doing well so far." He shrugs, and grabs another slice of pizza. "Besides, I can't lie to the children," he says with mock seriousness. "They're our future."

I roll my eyes. It would make sense that he suddenly developed a sense of humor in the presence of teenage boys.

The discussion had gone well after the initial weird bro ice breaking, and it seemed that once Steve answered a question, other guys in the group felt more comfortable to share their perspectives. I had ordered the questions in a way so that some of the more sensitive topics would be asked later, if they hadn't already been discussed.

Being the only unfamiliar woman in the room, I knew my presence might create some discomfort. So I wisely took the backseat when we asked for their feedback on the sections that were difficult to talk about and made sure my face stayed neutral the entire time. Interestingly, this varied from topic to topic, so it was important to read the room to determine whether I or Edward would be the more appropriate moderator.

As predicted, we didn't stick directly to the script, but after the initial chilly reception, I understood how important it was to keep the conversation flowing. By the end of the first hour, Edward and I had developed a seamless system for trading roles. We were a bit behind, but I was confident we would be able to finish the rest of the questions by the end of the second hour.

Plus, we have pizza, which is always a good thing.

I look around the room and frown. "Where's Angela?" Not spotting her, I finish the last of my pizza and throw it in the trash before stepping out into the hallway. Low voices grow louder as I head to the end, and I see her sitting with another female student who's clearly been crying and looks upset. For some reason, I decide to approach, encouraged by my recent success with teenagers, wondering if I could somehow help even with my status as an outsider. Luckily, Angela seems more relieved rather than offended by my presence. She gets up and walks towards me, asking, "Do you mind if you sit with her for a while? My daughter's sick at home with my husband, and I just need to check in before we go back to the classroom."

I blink. "Um, sure. Is she ok?"

Angela shoots me a sympathetic look. "She just broke up with her boyfriend because they're going to different colleges. Apparently he blames her and has been giving her a hard time ever since."

Pass. Oh, wait. "Of course," I answer, smiling forcefully. Be nice.

She smiles at me gratefully before pulling out her cellphone and disappearing around the corner.

I take a deep breath and sit across from the girl, sliding down against the lockers. Her face is puffy, with eyes reddened and swollen from continuous crying. Ah, high school romance. I try to mirror Edward's relaxed posture from earlier, spreading awkwardly, but end up uncomfortably slumping against the wall like a slack puppet. I quickly sit up and retain some dignity.

"I'm Bella. What's your name?" Ugh, way too perky. Why is that my default tone when I talk to teens?

The girl sniffs and hoarsely replies, "Bailey."

I nod. "Thanks, Bailey."

She looks down, a sob escaping delicately from her chest.

Providing genuine comfort to others is difficult. I'd always felt like I was grasping for straws, falling short of saying the magical combination of words needed to alleviate the situation. You can offer some generic wisdom, feign ignorance, or change the topic completely. But those all feel so insincere. Maybe the best way to help someone, to truly make them feel better, is to become as vulnerable as they are. Maybe that's the reason why we struggle with comforting them in the first place-because we don't want to admit to ourselves how helpless we actually are when we're confronted with something painful.

So I decide to use my temporary status to my advantage. "I think I'm insulting both of us when I ask if you're ok, so I'm just going to be direct: what's wrong?"

She doesn't look up.

I try again. "Ms. Weber mentioned you just broke up with your boyfriend. I'm sorry."

She looks at me, startled by the sudden gravity in my tone, that I'm actually taking her seriously.

"You're young, but that doesn't make it hurt less," I gently reason. "That doesn't help explain the pain away."

Nothing.

"You know-"

"Stop it, just stop. I'm not the victim here." She drops her head back down and clutches her blonde hair in anguish, a few more tears streaking down her face.

"I feel like I'm missing something," I cautiously probe.

She sniffles. "I slept with his best friend after we broke up. I mean, why would-who would do something like that?"

Oh shit. I school my features into a neutral expression.

My first time wasn't romantic, and it was unforgettable for the wrong reasons. After Jasper left, I immersed myself in booze-soaked hook-ups, wondering if I could replace the few sexual memories I had with something better. But there wasn't any satisfaction or pride. Rather, the emptiness created from the first time simply grew, until it became a gap between what I thought I wanted and how I really felt. It was a cycle of intimate self-destruction, and it stopped once I realized that hooking up with strangers didn't give me more control or make me feel less insecure.

"Someone who just wanted to forget," I answer quietly. "Someone who thought it seemed like a good idea at the time and just went with it. Someone who realized afterwards that it was a mistake."

I lean forward and stare, willing her to look at me so she can see that I mean what I say next. "You can be any or all of those someones. But you are not someone bad or unworthy. You're just a girl who had her heart broken for the first time. And that is not nothing." I emphasize the last few words slowly and surely, and feel the Jasper-sized knot in my chest tighten.

She looks up at me again, misery in her brown eyes, and releases a resigned shudder. "I know this sounds stupid, but I don't know what to do without him," she whispers. "I don't know if I'll ever find someone else."

I hear Angela's clicking heels come around the corner, and start to get up. "Maybe not. But this will all hurt less and less. That's just how it works. When you're ready, you'll find lots of someone else's, and probably date a few, even fall in love again. And when the right one comes along, you'll know. You'll know because that guy isn't just someone else-he's someone better."

I smile at her reassuringly, before nodding at Angela and returning to the classroom. My hand stretches towards the doorknob, but I hesitate and take a deep breath. I close my eyes briefly, turning the words over in my head until I feel the knot loosen.

…

Despite my attempts to roadrunner myself back to the hotel after the focus group, Edward casually informed me that he had made reservations for dinner at a French restaurant. I started to accuse him of being presumptuous, but he simply grabbed his bag and commented, "You can yell at me over dinner," before shutting the car door.

This is all to explain how the hell I'm currently sitting across from him over a candlelit table in the corner of a beautiful restaurant overlooking the Chicago River.

And yes, I may have changed into an emerald sweater with a deep V and some tight jeans that seemed a bit more snug than usual (damn you Shake Shack).

As tempting as it is to simply stare at the menu and continue my immature silent treatment, I know there's something I have to say. "Thanks for breaking the ice with the kids today," I mention. "I was afraid we might not have gotten anything from them."

I finally look up at him, and momentarily appreciate the way his maroon sweater molds to the wide planes of his chest. Yum. "Of course. I'm a bit surprised at how responsive they were, actually. We were able to get through most of the questions." He continues to scan the menu methodically, and I secretly wonder if he's trying to calculate the number of calories in each meal like I am. For some reason, he strikes me as the type of guy to keep a strict diet, because it's simply an injustice to the world if he's able to eat what he wants and still have the physique of David Beckham.

Not that I've thought about what he looks like under the suits. Not at all.

I nod. "Yeah. I was surprised to hear that almost half of them haven't had sex yet. Usually, the numbers are much higher, but this seems consistent with the national data."

"Well a lot of them mentioned taking multiple AP classes and working outside of school. Maybe their priorities are different," he muses, placing his menu down as the waiter comes over and takes our orders.

I purse my lips. "It's an interesting theory. I'm actually excited to look through the transcript and write the report, which hasn't happened in a while." Interacting with participants in general made me appreciate my work, which was something I missed since being promoted. But there are always pros and cons to every job, and I certainly can't complain about mine. At least not today.

"Does IHS not have enough similar opportunities?" He sits back and folds his arms, which bulge against the fabric. Not obscenely so like Mr. Clean, but just enough to make me wonder what his arms look like underneath his sweater.

I shrug. "Not much, but unless you're at an organization that specifically focuses on this topic, it's difficult to come by this type of work."

He nods slowly. "That's fair. I suppose I was in a bubble during my time at the Gates Foundation."

My eyes light up. "Yeah, what was that like?" I had looked into applying for a job there, but there had been no opportunities at the time.

We spend the next half hour talking about his work experiences, in between bites and sips of wine, specifically focusing on his time in Nigeria, where he helped train local doctors in basic public health procedures at four clinics. When federal funding was cut for the third year, he simply used his trust fund to continue the program until he was able to find money from a more sustainable source.

I try not to look totally turned on.

"I'm sure the experience came with challenges too," I choose my words carefully.

Surprisingly, his expression warms. "It wasn't always the safest or easiest place to be, but everyone there was united. They were strong and dedicated and trusted each other in a way that I wasn't used to. It might look like they were lucky to have me, but I learned more during my time there than when I was in school."

"I'm sure you helped more than you know." We exchange mutual soft smiles in the comfortable silence that follows, until I recognize the decidedly unprofessional intimacy of the situation.

I gulp and take another sip of my wine. "Hopefully today's success can be repeated tomorrow. Especially now that I can use pizza to bribe them."

He smirks, commenting, "That was a smart move," before shooting me a questioning look. "Where did you disappear to during the break?"

"Oh, Angela had to make a call, so she had me sub in for her with another student. She's going through a breakup, so she was understandably upset." Please don't pry for details.

"It's a high school break-up," he answers dryly. "Surely she saw it coming." He leans back and takes a sip of his wine, assessing me with his bright green gaze. "It's kind of pathetic, don't you think?"

Welcome back, asshole. And you were doing so well. "Not everyone is as clairvoyant as you are. And just because it's predictable doesn't make it any less painful," I snap.

The waiter appears, asking us if we need anything. I decide against having another bottle of wine, but Edward decides the opposite. Perfect.

When he leaves, Edward leans back and crosses his arms, a satisfied look on his face. "So it's personal, whatever's bothering you."

I glance at him, annoyed. "Why do you use manipulation to get answers?"

"The same reason why you won't give them to me in the first place."

"I'm trying to be professional." I'm trying not to let the desperation in my tone bleed through as I reach for my glass again.

He narrows his eyes. "I know. It's weird."

The waiter returns with the wine, and we both sit in silence as he pours. He's definitely a bit closer to me, and I realize I've scooted to the front of my seat. We don't look away from each other, and aside from the usual heat, there's a mixture of curiosity and challenge in his eyes. He enjoys pushing me, and I allow him to. But for the first time, I can't completely repress the thought of what would happen if I pushed back.

Alcohol is bad, guys. It makes you do bad, bad things. The problem is, doing them can feel so, so good.

"I find myself taking extra liberties with you," Edward responds smoothly, after the waiter leaves again. He leans forward and reaches for his glass. "One of the side effects of working with your assaulter, I guess."

I finish the last of my wine. "You're a sociopath."

He smirks. "You're stalling."

Yes, but you're not supposed to know that. I sigh irritably. "Are you going to be this difficult for the rest of this trip?"

"That depends on whether you plan to run off and comfort another teenage girl over her boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend," I emphasize. "And yes, I shouldn't have been late to the second half of the discussion. But I don't regret talking to her."

He sets his glass down. "Good. Now tell me what's bothering you." Is that concern I hear?

I merely raise an eyebrow, earning a slightly strained, "Please."

It's expected I divert the conversation again, or at the very least tell him to fuck off, but after the weird conversation at the school and our unexpectedly successful teamwork, I feel like I can trust him with this information-like he won't use it against me.

Twirling the glass in my hands, I watch the candlelight flicker on its surface before explaining, "Someone I knew recently moved back to D.C. We had a fight before he left and now I'm not sure where to go from here."

I pause to reach for the bottle in the middle of the table. "His life is really screwed up right now, so I want to help him. But I also don't know if that's a good idea." This time I pour to the halfway mark before settling the bottle next to me.

Edward taps his fingers against the white tablecloth, thrumming in a steady rhythm. "Did you start the fight?" He keeps his expression neutral, and I hope it mirrors mine.

I hesitate briefly before answering, "Kind of. It's complicated." Under-fucking-statement of the year.

This time he laughs sharply, with an almost bitter edge. He finishes his glass, and I watch the smooth, column of his throat undulate, and feel my mouth turn dry. "What isn't?"

Understanding dawns as his eyes widen slightly. "Wait, is this the same guy you mentioned before? The one who hurt you?"

Ah, fuck. There's not enough wine in the world to dive more deeply into that. There's nothing I can say other than a flat, "Yeah." Annnnnnd down the wine goes. Ooh, fruity.

Edward spins the glass in his hand, performing some kind of mental gymnastics. Although the restaurant is pretty toasty, with candles on the table to create a dark, romantic glow, I only feel the weight of his stare as it burns through my skin, as tangible as a caress.

"Hmmmm," he finally says.

I resist the urge to run my hand through my curled hair in agitation. "I know, it should be simple right?" The uncertainty of my voice causes it to shake, and I curse myself inwardly.

He looks down briefly before glancing back at me underneath his thick eyelashes, and I can't help but hum the Maybelline jingle. After a moment of pondering my words, he cryptically remarks, "I don't think anything with you is simple. What did you tell the girl?"

Wait, what? The transition gives me minor whiplash, or perhaps that's the wine. I focus on answering his question. "I told her that it'll get better and she'll find someone else. Someone better."

"Makes sense to me. So why not take your own advice?"

Why not, indeed? "Good question."

I resist the urge to fidget nervously, but he must detect my anxiety, because he changes the subject. "It's interesting that they're at the beginning of their adult lives. I don't think I remember what that feels like," he muses wistfully, like a sad old man who's on his deathbed.

I decide to fuck with him, since, well, I can't actually fuck him. "I know. To be full of hope and optimism, uncrushed by the world's weight. Insert Shakespeare quote about youth."

He bites his lip to stop his laughter. Boo.

"Insert Shakespeare quote?" He asks, eyebrow raised.

I redden but cross my legs. "Sure, it's what the kids say."

"I don't think anyone says that."

I lean back in my chair, exasperated. "Why do you have to fight me on everything?"

He leans forward. "Because you always let me."

Line.

Something occurs to me about his earlier question, and I jolt up excitedly to mirror his position across the table. "What if they're choosing to stay abstinent because they're no longer romanticizing the idea of sex?"

He cocks his head at me, and I shiver from the intensity of his gaze. "Really? That's certainly different. Want to elaborate?" His voice is all measured politeness, but he comes closer, until I suddenly realize that our elbows are almost touching on the table.

My lightheadedness causes me to wave my hand nonchalantly and set my empty glass down with a soft thud. I feel my movements become languid, and wicked thoughts start to escape from their confined corner.

"Gladly. With the proliferation of technology, maybe there's more communication of the realities of sex. I mean, the first time is pretty anti-climactic. Especially in high school, when no one knows what they're doing or feel comfortable with their own bodies." I say this breezily, like I'm an heiress lounging around an antique arm chair, waving her cigarette in circles, calling everyone "dah-ling".

His unfairly full lips tilt into a smirk and he sips his drink, the candlelight casting an unsettling glow that makes his eyes look similar to an alley cat's. Though his gaze remains calculating with a determination that I can't quite understand, I suspect it's the alcohol that's caused them to darken.

The man is starting to look at me like I was his dessert, and I only hope I don't look like I want to toss him a giant spoon.

So I keep babbling. "I mean, it's not all horrible I suppose. It's nice to feel wanted and to be touched. But sex is usually pretty one-sided, and it's not on the woman's side."

What the hell was I doing? Talking about sex with my boss? Talking about unsatisfying sex with my boss?

I really need to get laid. This is starting to become a problem.

"Do I need to state the obvious that it's clearly not the woman's fault?" He asks, amusement etched in his features, that goddamn dimple flashing. "Maybe puff up my chest and tell you that men can be selfish idiots? Is that my role here?" This time I hear the huskiness in his voice, all smoky and desirous promises to be carried out in giant, plushy hotel beds with sturdy bedframes-

I clear my throat, fidgeting with my necklace and trying to ignore the way his eyes follow the motion. "Um, it goes without saying that anything I say tonight is under the influence of wine. For the record."

Hi, sanity! I've missed you. Kinda. Now go away so I can keep pretending this isn't a bad idea.

He laughs, the sound throaty and quintessentially masculine. "So you get a free pass? I'm not sure that's fair. Unless I get the same courtesy, that is."

By now, I'm sure my blush has spread to my collarbone and is en route to my chest. I catch my breath on an inhale. "Sure. Why not? Just as long as we can be...somewhat professional tomorrow morning."

Mischief sparkles in his eyes. "Who's being presumptuous now?" There's a teasing lilt to his voice, but the wine also unmasks a constrained tone that makes me thankful I wore a bra.

I cough and finally finish the last of the wine. From the bottle. Because shit, I drank an entire bottle of wine? "You know what I mean."

"Do I? You might have to fill in the details." My hand gently brushes against his when I lower my wine glass, and I'm tempted to move it right away, only to find that I can't. Move, I mentally command my fingers, so slender and delicate next to his broad, thick ones. No luck. Ah well.

He doesn't move either.

It's annoying, this back and forth. I feel like I have one hand tied behind my back, partly due to professional courtesy but mostly due to my stupid relationship issues. Normally, it's easy to be charming and pretend for a while, but for some reason, I can't completely pretend with him. I know he would just call me out on my inauthenticity, and oh wow, that wine has really hit me-I don't know if that's something I can prepare for and protect myself from.

Luckily, a heavenly deity steps in with an intervention. The waiter decides to materialize, thanks us for our time and places the check on the table. Relieved, I quickly pull out my wallet and attempt to slap my credit card down, only to see his hand cover the check.

"You don't need to pay," I assert, desperate to get out of there. "This is work-related." I resist the urge to fidget like a nervous rabbit even though my foot is shaking underneath the table.

"Next time," he vows, before reaching to place his card on the bill and waving the waiter forward.

For the first time that night, I drink the untouched glass of water next to my empty wineglass. Deep breaths. Say goodnight and get the fuck out of there. I resist the urge to pour the cold water over my face and body.

Edward leans forward ever so slightly, his chiseled features on display like an exhibit, illuminated by the slowly dying embers. This time his voice does come out like a growl, pinning me to my chair so my foot shaking ceases.

"You clearly want to run with your dignity intact, so I'll give you two options. You can either stay and we can go back to make small talk and keep pretending we're strictly professional, or you can leave and I'll pretend tonight's conversation never happened. But if you choose the latter, you have to tell me something."

My lips part and I quickly regain control of my jaw to snap it shut. "What makes you think I won't just walk away now and pretend tonight never happened?" I retort, temper flaring slightly at his control freak proposal.

"Because that's not what the woman in the coffee shop would've done."

It's a blatant threat and dare rolled into one explosive package, unsuspectingly dropped at my feet for me to defuse.

So I finally stop wavering between indecision and blatant desire, and just go for it. Empowered by the wine, knowing he was probably similarly tipsy, I feel myself lean forward onto the table, so close I can almost feel his breaths on my face.

"What do you want to know?" Whoa, was that my voice? I sound like Jessica Rabbit after chain smoking for an hour.

Satisfaction breaks through the previous challenging stare, and his features relax. "It's a scenario question."

I roll my eyes. "Of course it is."

"Let's say we're two strangers who just met each other here. We have a couple of drinks, engage in some conversation, and then have dinner. Towards the end, we have to say goodnight."

"Yes?"

"I want you to finish the story."

I open my mouth-

"No, I don't want the professional version. We're just strangers, remember? Tell me what would happen." The last sentence are spoken like a command, causing my crossed legs to twitch and clench.

I don't move, and I remind myself to keep breathing at a slow and steady rhythm. It's the best and worst question, and based on his half lidded gaze, I know what he wants me to say.

So I tell him what I want. Hypothetically, that is. "If I really liked you, then I would ask you to walk me to my hotel." I murmur. The enlarged pupils swallow the green and it's difficult to say who exactly is the snake charmer and who is the snake.

"Then?" His voice descends to a gravelly mixture of want and challenge.

"Then we would walk along the river, make some more small talk, trying to ignore the fact that we'll probably never do this again." I emphasize the last few words pointedly, though I'm not sure he'll take the hint.

"And?"

I breathe out and try to steady my racing heartbeat, clutching the tablecloth that brushes against my thighs. "We'd get to my hotel, shivering close to each other. I'd feel sorry for you, since it's so cold out, so I'd invite you in for a few minutes. Because I don't want you to freeze."

"Right. How generous of you."

"Quiet, you're interrupting my flow," I admonish playfully. "I'd go to the kitchen and make us some hot chocolate, and feel you come up behind me. Your hands would reach for my waist, and I'd stop looking. You would kiss right below my ear and we'd have some kind of salacious exchange until there's nothing but sounds. We're breathless but keep talking about everything we want to do and where. And then I turn around." I'm lost in my own tale that I don't notice his hand gently tracing circles on my palm until I stop speaking.

"And?" This request is spoke with a more muted tone, and I feel my stomach clench at the sight of his no holds barred, let's-find-a-dark-corner, penetrating stare. Our noses lightly brush against one another-

ABORT ABORT. Logic is running around my mind, putting out fires that Fun is starting gleefully, cackling. "Well, I can't spell everything out for you, can I?" I joke, aware of the sweat between my thighs. And other areas. "Some things are better kept in the dark."

He doesn't back away but returns to his normal tone of nonchalance. "No good night kiss?"

I gather my things, breaking the spell, and stand up. "I don't know. Maybe you'll surprise me."

As I walk past him, he steps next to me and says, "We're going to the same hotel. I'll walk with you."

Shit.

Surprisingly, he changes the subject and keeps talking, although it's mostly work-related. My heart sinks a bit when I realize that he's kept his promise, and has already started to erase tonight, which should be a good thing.

If only the itch of unfulfilled arousal would go away just as easily.

As we duck into the elevator, I almost think something will happen. I mean, it's an elevator right? He stands a few feet in front of me, and I back myself up the wall and stare unabashedly. He tenses and puts his hands on his hips, as if he feels the heat emanating from me. Impatience thrums through his body while I drowsily study his profile, all straight lines and trim waist and broad shoulders. For a second, I wonder what he would do if the scenario I described to him came true. I wonder what he would do if I gently pressed my lips against the back of his neck-

Ding! The elevator doors open and I deflate with disappointment as we both return to our rooms, adjacent to the other.

"Thank you for tonight," he says, shooting me a strained smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Definitely," I gulp, opening my door and leaning against it once it's closed.

Dizzy from the wine and plain sexual frustration, I drop my purse on the chair and face plant onto the bed. For a few minutes, I debate undressing and passing out, opting to shower in the morning. But slowed down images of the dinner keep replaying in my mind, igniting the persistent desire that leaves me wanting and wet.

Fuck this. What happens in Zhivago stays in Zhivago, right?

I slowly get up and disrobe, gently brushing against my skin and pretending his hands were on me. I decide to keep the heels on, liking the rush I get from looking at them, but wisely fall back on the bed, since I didn't want to have to explain that potential ED visit.

My eyes flutter closed and I cup my breasts, enjoying the fullness of their weight, pinching the nipples. Sharp bursts of pleasure immediately follow, and I moan so loudly the sound reverberates through the room. Turned on by the sound of my own neediness, and feeling more reckless by the second, I focus on my pleasure and tease myself-stroking my skin, easing the fabric off of my body, before parting my legs, feeling the moisture clinging to my pussy.

I close my eyes and allow my hand to wander down, down, until I swipe up and down the swollen lips.

I continue where I left off in my fantasy, and imagine seeing the hunger in his eyes as I plaster my body to his against the counter, his solid body heat trickling down to my core. "Fuck," he grasps. "I want you so fucking badly."

Smirking, I lift my arms up to get rid of my sweater, feeling it drop at our feet. He shoots me a wicked look before kneeling to kiss my stomach and gently rolls down my tight jeans, tonguing the smooth indentations of my pelvis. A groan escapes at the sight of the dark red tuft between my thighs.

His hands remove the silky wet fabric and he places his lips right above my clit. I release a strangled gasp this time, and he maneuvers me so I sit on the sink, legs falling open for his fingers, mouth, and tongue.

"Fuck," I whimper softly. He speeds up his rhythm, the combination shoving me towards the edge I want to hurl myself off of. "Oh please," I moan, almost hysterically. It's only when his tongue swipes up my clit again, his fingers pumping in and out, exerting just enough pressure that swirls around my abdomen, do I break.

I clutch the sheets around me as I come hard. Both in the fantasy and the reality. Incoherent sounds of relief leave my lips as I gasp over and over, carried by each wave of my release. As I recover and open my eyes, I watch him lazily get up before running his fingers through my hair, one fist wrapping it around it gently. "I can't wait to feel you fall apart around me," he growls softly. "Your cunt is the sweetest dessert I've ever had."

This makes me giggle drunkenly, since I doubt he would ever say those words to me, before I fall into a dreamless sleep.

…

Knock, knock.

Where exactly is he?

Knock, kno-

The door opens in a blur, and I step back, surprised. His hair is an electrocuted mess, and I try to look unaffected at his black fitted sweater over a collared shirt, which was currently rumpled. Ugh, sophisticated sexy chic. His fingers roughly straighten it out, as he reaches over to grab his materials, all flustered and anxious.

Huh.

He turns towards me, and I'm taken aback by his no nonsense gaze and his scowl. "I know I'm late," he snaps. "We don't have time to grab anything, so I hope you've had breakfast."

"Um, yeah I had a granola bar." This comes out like a question.

"Great," he said sarcastically. "I'm glad one of us is fed."

I blink at him. "Are you-is everything ok?"

"Fine," he grits. "Let's go."

"Are you sure you're feeling well? I can call the school and sub in if you want."

"I feel fine. Stop asking."

We make our way down to the lobby, where he proceeds to grind his teeth so hard I pity his crushed molars. I spot an empty conference room next to the lobby, and debate whether I want to have a confrontation. After all, last night was awkward, but we managed not to do anything stupid. So maybe we could be...friends? Ok, maybe not friends. But civil, definitely.

Once he's checked us out of our rooms, I grab him by the arm and steer him towards the conference room, ignoring his angry barking and protests.

I shut the door. "Ok, what the hell is going on? I thought-I thought you said we would pretend last night never happened."

He crosse his arms and stares behind my head, jaw clenched and stony faced.

I try again. "I mean, that's what this is about, right? I can't imagine what's happened since then that's caused you to suddenly be a jerk all over again."

His fists clench and I see him grind his teeth again.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said. It was inappropriate and I hope we can move on and be...friends?"

His head whips in my direction, and he quietly replies, "No, we can't be friends."

I ignore the stab of disappointment in my gut. "Ok, then. Uncomfortable co-workers it is," I conclude awkwardly, turning around towards the door, but his voice stops me.

"The walls here are very thin," he says lowly. "You'd be surprised at how much you can hear."

I freeze and feel everything come to a screeching halt.

First thought: Oh, fuck me.

Second thought: Did I say his name last night?

I conclude that I didn't and it takes all of my humility to turn around and face him. "Oh. Um, yeah. Sorry about that." Because what the hell can you say? I feel like twiddling my thumbs.

The silence lingers for a lot longer than it needs to, and I find myself twitching nervously, which I hate. Then again, why should I feel guilty or apologetic? It's not like I invited him to watch me or participate (note to self: store that one in the fantasy bank for later).

So I blurt out, "Wait, is that why you're so angry? You're angry with me because you heard me? Is it so offensive or unheard of that a woman should-"

He closes the gap between us in a few steps and looms over me, frustration crackling in his eyes. "Stop talking. You and I both know why I'm so pissed off right now, and it's not because I heard you. It's because I wasn't in the room with you." Unlike the previous encounters, his voice is black with lust, thickening his vocal cords. There's no restraint anymore, and the full force of his wanting and desperation hits me until I can't breathe.

My eyes widen.

His jaw goes slack, as if he just heard himself say it aloud. His hand runs through his hair.

The sight makes me laugh disbelievingly. "Does this make us even now? An inappropriate eye for an inappropriate eye? Can we go back to being co-workers?" I try to ignore the tremor in my voice.

For a second, I see him consider it.

"Sure," he finally agrees. Cue the contradiction of relief and disappointment.

I nod politely, preparing to leave again, when I hear him say, "But you didn't finish the scenario last night. So I will."

I turn around just to see him sit on top of the conference table, and I try not to look down as he spreads his legs and makes himself comfortable.

He waits until he holds his gaze captive with mine, resolute. "You turn around and I don't kiss you, at least not yet. My hands drift and explore, touching your shoulders, your hips, and your neck. It's clear, at least in this scenario, that you want me. I can see it, and I'm sure it's obvious that I want you. I lean in and kiss your neck, smiling at how fast your pulse is racing. I slide your sweater off to expose one shoulder and I bite it gently, making you moan. Your hands push my shirt up impatiently, and we both separate to get rid of all the fabric in our way. Now the pace has picked up, and we both stumble to the bed." His tone matches his expression, all clinical and controlled, yet I feel my skin flush and my pulse race.

He crosses his legs and a speculative expression appears on his face. "Your turn," his voice smoothly demands, like honey drizzling on wet skin.

There isn't any alcohol to motivate me now, but for some reason, I decide to play along. It's a different game we're playing, finally admitting to the not-so-hypothetical dirty things we want to do to each other, but still trying to gain the upper hand. "I manage to sit on top of you while I dig into your shoulders, moving my hips. You lick your lips and remove everything else, replacing your hands with your mouth."

A flare of arousal in his expression indicates his approval, and he growls, "I lick right between your breasts before pushing you back and spreading you, wet and open. I'm so fucking hard that I can barely think, but I know this will be good. So good it might ruin us. I reach down to gently flick you while you squirm impatiently, and wipe away the evidence on my tongue."

His chin raises slightly in my direction.

What the fuck?

He smirks at me, and continues. "I torture you a few times by rubbing myself against you. And then I lean over, skin to skin, and we finally...kiss."

He pushes off from the table and stretches lazily.

"Wait, what?" I ask, dazed.

"I'm answering my question from last night," he answers casually, as if we're talking about the weather. "That's how the goodnight kiss would happen."

He walks to the door and opens it, but not before turning around to grin smugly and ask, "Surprised yet?"

Determined to not let him get the last word yet again, I fire back, "No, just cheated."

If possible, his grin grows wider. "Good. Now we're even."

I glare at the spot he just vacated when I hear my phone vibrate. Grumbling, I check the message and feel my stomach sink when I see that it's from Jasper.

 _Happy Friday. Want to grab coffee this weekend?_

I hate Chicago.


	15. The Purple Giraffe

Happy Friday to all! Huge shout out to my wonderful and hilarious beta, JulieToo. Looking forward to lots of interesting conversations, life chats, and yeah the story. Like I mentioned before, there will be alternating EPOVs and BPOVs from now on, and I hope to do both characters justice. Jasper and Alice will definitely still be around, but our favorite couple has to have some alone time to do some, er, coupling. Anyway, as always-thanks for reading and reviewing. Have a great weekend!

The Purple Giraffe

EPOV

"Are there any topics or resources that you think the program should include?" I ask, surveying the room of fifteen or so teenagers who are already reverting back to their inactive resting states. The majority shakes their heads, some tapping their feet restlessly, anxious to leave now that two hours have passed.

I try to hide my amused and slightly exasperated smile. "Alright then, thanks for your time. Feel free to grab another slice of pizza on your way out."

The shuffling of chairs and desks scraping across the floor immediately replace the silence. I pack up my recorder and notepad, turning my phone back on.

 _1 missed call._

I look up to see Brian, one of the participants in the focus group, approach me, an uncertain look on his face. "Hey man, I got-I gotta question for you." He fidgets and glances at me briefly, not sustaining eye contact. I try to look as reassuring as possible. "Sure, go ahead. What can I do for you?"

He swallows. "When we were talking about pregnancy and uh, fatherhood? You said you know about some links and books? Can you write some of that stuff down for me?"

My face softens. "Yeah, no problem. I've actually got a few pamphlets in my bag that I can get for you." I turn around and look through my bag, debating whether to ask for any personal details. "Girlfriend?" I hand him the materials and keep my tone even with only professional curiosity.

He nods jerkily. "Yeah. We're going to a clinic next week."

I relax a bit. Smart kid. "That's a good idea, Brian. You know, this program might not go into detail about young fatherhood, but I know of another program in the city that provides stuff like parenting classes and diapers which could be helpful. Would you like their information?"

His eyes widen and his hands start to shake at his sides at my mention of "parenting" and "diapers". Not that I blame him.

I decide to slip off my professional persona, just for a second. "I don't know you, and you don't know me. So if you want to tell me whatever's on your mind, whether it's graduation or fatherhood or why the Cubs are losing, I'll be here for the next twenty minutes."

He eyes me speculatively, frowning. "Twenty minutes?"

I shrug and start unpacking again. "I've got some notes I can finish up. Plus, your teacher said to lock up after I'm done, which I'm pretty sure is against the rules. We can probably get him to order us some more food if we want."

He gives me a small smile, which I return with a grin.

I take a seat and write down the name of the clinic run by a friend of mine from grad school that targets low income teens in the area. "Here's the address of the clinic. You don't need to make an appointment." He tentatively reaches for the card that I hand him, staring at the information for a few seconds, before looking at the seat next to me.

I return to my scribbling, pushing away the exhaustion I feel from the afternoon. It's tempting to dismiss teenagers as children, and in some ways they are-impulsive, ambitious, obsessed with the newest and shiniest social media toy. But they're a lot more insightful and observant than we give them credit for. As much as we hate to admit it, all of the angst and hormone-fueled frustration simply become more manageable, but doesn't disappear.

He clears his throat, having taken the seat. "So what else does the clinic offer?'

…

It's almost an hour and a half later before I reach my hotel room, ignoring the slight dip in my stomach when I walk past her door, which is blessedly silent.

What the hell was I thinking this morning?

I pull out my cell phone and hit redial, cradling it between my ear and shoulder as I unlock the door to my hotel room. The call connects and rings three times before I hear a soft voice murmur, "Hey there. How's Chicago?"

I shrug off my jacket and slide the bag under the TV. "Cold and windy. I don't know how you lived here for a year."

Alice laughs, well aware of my aversion to cold weather. "You lived in Boston for six years. I don't think you get to complain, wimp," she teases.

I roll my eyes even as a smile works itself onto my face. "I left for a reason. What's the latest on the job front? Have you heard anything from Nicholson & West?"

She sighs. "No, not yet. It's only been a week, so I might wait for a few more days. I did receive a request to schedule an interview with Barnes, Greene, and Hall. They're a smaller firm that mostly handles insurance cases, but it's a start."

I try not to react at how small her voice has gotten, and the clear fatigue from all of the countless hoop jumping and back flipping. Alice had graduated from NYU law and clerked for the Maryland Court of Appeals before ending up at the same law firm as Anna's sperm donor. After the not so honorable Judge Reynolds found out she was pregnant, he had her fired from the practice, blacklisted from most other major firms in D.C., and threatened her with an NDA.

Alice and I had been through too much, but I'd never seen her more defeated than on the day those papers were delivered.

"They've got a decent reputation. And I think starting out slowly might be a more manageable pace," I advise reassuringly. "You only moved back a few months ago with Anna. No one would blame you for wanting to take things slow."

She snorts. "Don't patronize me, Masen. You and I both know that I love Anna, but I have to go back to work. It's not just a way to provide for us, it's a part of my life that's missing." She sighs again heavily, the sound hitting a spot beneath my ribs. "I'm sorry, it's just the frustration from job searching. Feel free to ignore me. Instead, let's talk Chicago-did you try Gino's?"

The sudden change in her tone momentarily silences further conversation about her job prospects, and I gladly take the bait. "Yes, I actually managed to use it as an incentive for the focus group kids. They said Antonio's was better, by the way."

She scoffs. "They're teenage boys. Their brains and taste buds haven't fully developed yet."

"I don't think that applies to taste buds, Alice."

"No one likes a know-it-all, Masen."

We both chuckle, before she asks curiously, "Aren't you there with another co-worker? How's that going?"

"Co-worker" was no longer anywhere near the accurate word to describe Bella Swan. Granted, we had never been strictly professional, no matter how hard she tries to pretend otherwise, but last night-

Last night somehow turned from exhilarating to excruciating in a matter of minutes.

Sexual tension aside, I'm almost impressed at how capable and dedicated she's been to this project. She and I spent months preparing and recruiting for Boyz2Men, and were able to reach several sites quickly given her outreach efforts and stakeholder interest. Her enthusiasm and attentiveness were part of what made yesterday's session a success, and it's clear she's passionate about this topic.

"It's fine," I answer casually. "We were able to get the data we needed, have a nice dinner, and now we're going over some of the notes and recordings."

"You had dinner with her?"

Of course that's what would catch her attention. "It was-more for convenience. Neither of us know anyone in Chicago and we're both staying at the same hotel." I try to maintain my nonchalance, even as my eye twitches during the second half of my sentence.

"Hmmm," Alice hums. "Interesting. This wouldn't happen to be the co-worker who kicked you, would it?"

Shit. "Yes, but that was months ago. I can't exactly keep holding a grudge over someone I'm working with."

"Hmmm."

I sit back against the pillows with a groan. "Just say it, Alice. You'll explode if you don't."

I don't think I've ever understood Bella Swan. Initially, I had dismissed her as a hungover and unstable idiot, because who else would decide to kick someone in broad daylight? I refused to see her as a professional, and didn't accept her apology. Instead, I made the next few weeks hell for her, playing havoc with deadlines and micro-managing every task she was assigned, convinced she wouldn't retaliate.

Yes, she was the only one who'd been unprofessional. What was the definition of irony again?

After the ErecTed Talk incident (thanks Dad), I realized how far we'd pushed each other. It didn't matter, then, who did what and how. We couldn't keep engaging in this egotistical battle of pettiness, proving the worst of ourselves right; I might as well have just stayed at ABS. I needed to gain the trust and respect of others at the company, and that wouldn't be possible if I kept fighting a pointless battle, especially one that constantly tested my control.

Then again, I was told that Bella and I had provided the most entertaining three months that anyone's ever experienced at IHS. There was even a rumor of an office bet on who would come out on top. Fantastic.

Determined to move forward and ignore the sexual current running through every encounter, I proposed my truce. She'd been surprisingly accepting of the whole thing, which should have been a relief. But watching her struggle to find solid ground, neutral topics to discuss, I realized I wasn't just bored-I was insulted. The office can't be a suitable battleground, but I also don't want another mindless co-worker. I don't want to have conversations filled with trite, superficial remarks to poorly substitute the verbal foreplay that had come to dominate every exchange.

I don't want to pretend I don't know the sounds she makes when she comes.

What's unclear to me is what she wants. I'd become accustomed to her sharp retorts, sarcastic email replies, and inability to repress any visible emotion. Overly emotional women weren't usually appealing to me, but her reactions were interesting. Even with a readable face, she tended to be unpredictable and defensive. It's clear she's used to being in control, and while I'm not a big enough dick to take it from her, I never missed the opportunity to try.

Watching her fight for control is satisfying; watching her realize that she wouldn't hate it if I took over is an exercise of the patience I don't have.

I'll admit it's juvenile, challenging her through schoolyard taunts and pop psychological manipulation. But the more she tried to enforce the "co-worker" boundary, the more I found myself pouring gasoline over the line, striking a match, and watching the entire thing go up in fucking flames.

The sounds of nonsensical syllables and gurgles prevent Alice from responding, and I sit up straight and grin.

"Nemo," I greet happily, having created the nickname after the movie that made her smile the most. Alice was adamant that it was just gas, but I think it's an indicator of her good taste.

"Ed-da!" Anna squeaks excitedly. I hear Alice's barely muffled giggles. "Hi-hi! Ca-go!"

Of course the first city her mother taught her to pronounce would be my least favorite one.

"D.C," I retort. "D.C.!" She exclaims, her voice bursting through the phone. In the past few months, I'd learned that toddlers only spoke at maximum volume. For some reason, I didn't mind it as much now, possibly because I've lost some of my hearing capabilities.

"When, back?" She asks curiously, a chewing sound echoing faintly. "Tomorrow," I reply. "Is it time for dinner, Nemo?"

Gulp, gulp, swallow. "Din-na!" She squeals again, clapping her hands. "Just imagine what she'll be like when she's allowed to have candy," Alice says dryly. I hear the sound of a bowl hitting the floor, followed by more laughing and clapping.

"Annnd another one bites the dust. You're just a little rebel, today, aren't you, bug?" Her tone is infused with a parental exasperation that causes my heart to squeeze. "Oh, by the way, I was able to schedule Amanda for the night of the after-party, if you still want me to go."

"Of course I want you there," I answer, looking around the room for my gym clothes. Hotels always made me restless-something about its transient nature-and I usually ended up working out at the gym before refueling and heading to bed. "And I'm sorry about scheduling the babysitter last minute. I was trying to see if I could get out of it."

The sound of a microwave door being shut followed by the low hum of something being warmed up comes through on speaker. "It's no problem, really," Alice replies, sounding a bit distracted. "I have to go, but I'll talk to you when you get back?"

I slide the exercise tank over my head. "Sure, I'll be there Monday night. Have you had dinner yet?"

"No, not yet," she replies, the initial tiredness returning in her voice. My stomach twists as I pull out my sneakers. "I'll spare you the lecture Al, but promise me you'll try to eat something after Anna goes to bed."

She snorts again. "You mean if she goes to bed." The microwave door opens and I hear Anna chant, "No, no, no!" I try to suppress my laugh in the face of Alice's clear exhaustion. Anna was definitely a handful and didn't make Alice's life any easier, but I couldn't help but be charmed by her infectious laughter and constant enthusiasm. Of course, her excitable personality sometimes meant she threw ear-shattering tantrums, but even so-the toddler had me wrapped tightly around her tiny finger.

Granted, I'm also not with her constantly-at least not anymore.

"Can you put her on the phone?"

Alice sighs. "You have thirty seconds."

"Ed-da!"

I pocket my hotel card and shut the door behind me. "Hi, Anna. Can you be a good girl for me and finish your dinner? Make things a bit easier for your poor mother?"

More laughter. Cute; I think she's learned to mock me. "Din-din!"

"That's right, Anna. Finish your dinner. You have to eat. Ok?"

"Spoon!"

"Anna," I cajole. "If you finish your dinner, I'll watch Nemo with you. How does that sound? Finish dinner and you'll get more Nemo?"

Deafening squeals cause me to pull the phone from my ear. "You are not helpful," Alice hisses. "Thanks for-"

There's a faint slurping and I grin smugly. "She's eating her dinner, isn't she?"

Five second pause. "You're still the worst," Alice replies, annoyed. "And the only way I'm watching that movie again is if I'm heavily caffeinated."

I open the door to the gym. "Done. See you both Monday."

"Have a safe flight."

…

An hour and a half later, I step out of my steamy bathroom after my workout and turn on my laptop to review the notes and recording from tonight's focus group. At some point, I need to consult with Bella about her session and combine all of the data for separate analysis. It's 10:30 PM, and our flight's at 11 AM tomorrow, so tonight's probably not an option.

Three sharp raps at the door echo through my room, and I swivel my head curiously in that direction. Securing the towel around my waist, I walk towards the door.

She really has impeccable timing.

"What can I do for you, Bella?" There's a chance I may take care to smooth the edges of my voice, just to watch her fluster and blush.

She doesn't disappoint. Her ivory skin pinkens and her soft-looking lips part. "E-Edward. Wow. You-you look, um. Really fit."

I lean against the door and cock my hip so the terry cloth fabric starts to slip. "Thanks. And you look like you want something."

Her pupils expand and I watch her chest rise and fall rapidly. "I do," she starts slowly, her voice turning into a soft purr. "Would you like me to show you?"

She places her hand on my chest, the startling chill contrasting sharply with the heat emanating from my skin. Her body draws closer until I feel her breasts brush against-

Knock, knock, knock.

"Edward? Are you there?" I blink and scrub my hands across my face, snapping out of my impromptu fantasy. What the hell?

Grumbling, I stride to open the door and bark, "It's a bit late to talk business, isn't it?"

Aside from a brief widening of her eyes, Bella doesn't visibly react in any other way. "I just came to give you my notes and recording for today's focus group. Offering pizza was just as effective as yesterday, because apparently free food can modify behavior. Who knew?"

I force myself to relax even though I'm mostly naked. Damn, this towel seemed to offer a lot more coverage a few seconds ago. I resist the urge to do something stupid like flex or lean against the door like I'm posing for a goddamn photoshoot.

Let's get this out of the way-I know I'm not unattractive. All of my ex-girlfriends and dating partners were considered beautiful, and that partly influenced my attraction to them. But unless we planned on just staring at each other, I knew the relationship could never last. And they never have.

Objectively speaking, Bella Swan is a composition of average-brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and build. At first glance in a crowd, there's really not much that's remarkable about her. She's not unattractive, but she's the type of girl you'd probably ignore if there was a statuesque blonde or eye-catching redhead nearby.

If you think I'm trying to intentionally sound like a asshole, then you're right.

Having spent a respectable amount of time with her in board meetings and conference calls-where my eyes may wander over to her because she's slightly more interesting than security updates-I certainly don't react to her like she's average or ordinary. I get a thrill when she's commanding the room, running through her presentation without missing a beat, efficiency personified. I study the delicate features of her face and the curve of her figure underneath those tight dresses and pencil skirts. And apparently I pry into her life to understand her interests, professional or otherwise.

Damn it, how hard did she kick me?

"Edward? Hello?" She waves her hand in front of my face. "You'd think I'd be the one silently staring with you in the towel and all. Are you feeling ok?"

I clear my throat and replace whatever my previous expression was with a charming smile. "I'm fine. Thanks for the materials." Thumbing through the notebook, I casually add, "You're more than welcome to take a closer look. Perhaps it might be useful."

Right on cue, Bella crosses her arms and purses her lips, her default stance of defiance. "Pass. And I don't think you should assume you were the inspiration for last night's...performance." The familiar blush starts to bloom on her face.

Yeah, and I wasn't thinking about your husky moans from last night when I was in the shower.

"So you weren't putting on a show for me?" I can't help but grin, knowing I'm being a dick and that she won't let me get away with it. The annoyance on her face morphs into a glare. "It's too late right now for me to explain how wrong you are. For the record, this is what being professional looks like." She sniffs and, I kid you not, swings her hair over her shoulder.

It's 10:45 and you're standing outside my hotel room while I'm wearing just a towel. Nothing about this is professional.

Frustration, sexual and otherwise, boils to the surface and I take a step closer to her. "You keep mentioning 'the record' and 'being professional', but I'm starting to think this is intentional. Do you enjoy teasing me, Bella?" I raise my arm and place it next to her head, planting my feet right across from hers.

I expect a witty retort or another biting remark to put me in my place, continuing the antics from this morning. Instead, her eyebrows pinch together and she leans back against the wall. Her head tilts upward as she studies me coolly.

"What do you want?" She asks quietly, firm and resolute. "You and I both know this isn't a smart idea or even a satisfying one." This time she takes a step closer, a different kind of frustration emanating from her rigid posture and clenched jaw.

"Sure, we might have a night of great sex. But then what? We awkwardly avoid each other and pretend it didn't happen? Or do we keep hooking up until it ends badly for one or both of us?"

Unlike last night, her words aren't fueled by temporary lust or alcoholic temptation. I can't tell what she's thinking or feeling. Her eyes reveal nothing but a blankness that I'd seen twice before, when she mentioned her ex.

Bella shakes her head, the strawberry scent of her shampoo diffusing in the space between us."I'm not saying it hasn't been fun. I think it's obvious I've enjoyed whatever game we've been playing, but that's all it was."

She takes a breath."I can't keep playing, Edward, because I will not allow myself to lose."

Uncertainty flickers in her eyes before they drop down. For the first time, the tension that surrounds us is no longer enticing or arousing. Her words are a tersely expressed command, leaving no room for debate.

I nod and take a step back. "Ok."

She returns my nod and pivots around to her room. I shiver and go inside, quickly throwing on some clothes before climbing into bed.

She's right. Hooking up with a co-worker is an impulsive, sex-crazed fantasy, realistically ending in terminal awkwardness or sudden departure. Our chemistry caused a temporary lapse in my sanity, and I should be grateful that she walked away.

So why am I disappointed?

Maybe this was no longer just about sex. But it's definitely not over.

…

"Bella! Edward!" Carlisle's voice booms across the airport entrance, and I wince. Like other professional adults, Bella and I had both sat in silence on the way to the airport and during the flight. My father called me while we waited for our bags to arrive, and happily ambushed us at the entrance.

Bella engulfs him in a hug. "It's great to see you, Carl. Thanks for the ride," she says warmly.

He grins. "Anytime, Bella. How was the flight?"

I shrug. "It was fine. Can we go? I want to start reviewing the materials."

Carlisle rolls his eyes. "It's a Sunday afternoon, son. Work can wait until tomorrow. You both hungry? Now that I've escaped your mother, we can finally go to some fast food restaurant. Maybe even a bar?" He looks as excited as a five year old getting ready to go to Six Flags.

Bella laughs. "Ordinarily, that would be great, but I'm a bit tired. Do you mind dropping me off at home? I just want to catch up on some sleep before the week starts."

I nod in agreement. "I think we're both a bit worn out from the trip, dad. I'm probably going to crash at home and go back to my place later tonight, if that's ok."

He deflates. "You two are really showing your age," he accuses, pointing at the both of us. "You each owe me an unhealthy meal at a generic restaurant. Maybe even a beer." Unintelligible grumbling ensues, as we all walk towards the car and load our luggage.

"So, anything interesting happen? How'd you both like Chicago?"

I manage to glimpse her reflection in the mirror and see her texting rapidly. "Everything was fine," I answer dutifully. "The students were extremely cooperative and helped inform our understanding of the program. Chicago's a bit cold for me."

Carl scoffs. "You lived in Boston. I don't understand how you didn't develop any immunity towards cold weather."

I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes. "No idea."

Carlisle makes eye contact with Bella. "How 'bout you Bella? What did you think?"

"It was interesting. Chicago's pretty great," she replies absently.

My dad glances at her from the rear view mirror before shooting me a curious look. The rest of the car ride is thankfully silent, even if it's forcibly awkward. Eventually, the car stops in front of Bella's apartment in Dupont Circle, an old, brick building about six stories tall across from a CVS. The faded ivory (or beige) paint and winding ivy at the base of the apartment signals that it's a staple of the neighborhood.

I step out to help with her luggage, but she quickly maneuvers around me and drags the suitcase towards the sidewalk. "I'm good here," she says, more to Carlisle than me. "Thanks for the ride, Carl. I'll see you both tomorrow morning."

I wait until she's disappeared into the building before turning around and getting back inside the car. Clearly both of us would avoid each other tomorrow, but how long would it take before another truce was in place?

The car starts to move and merge with the traffic. "Son, have I ever told you how I met your mother?"

I strap my seatbelt in, trying not to feel like I was in high school again being picked up from crew practice. "Only so many times that I know it better than I know the pledge of allegiance."

"That says more about your patriotism." He chuckles and launches into his tale, once again ignoring my objections. "I was an uptight pre-med student at the time, and we met in one of my elective courses-Architecture 101. She and I had to work together on the final project, and she was the most infuriating woman I'd ever met. I was so annoyed she didn't seem to agree with me on anything, but I still respected her. I admired her tenacity, even when it might have been misplaced, because she always fought for what she believed in. And after a few months of getting to know her and becoming more than just a classmate, I realized that included me."

He turns into the winding driveway, but continues. "The night before my MCAT exam, I was stressed out of my mind. Your mother was busy rehearsing for a performance for her dance group that night. I had told her I couldn't make it because I needed to study, and she'd understood. So imagine my shock when she showed at my room right after the show, still dressed up. She asked me point blank if I wanted to be a doctor and without thinking about it, I told her the truth-hell no. I apologized for missing her performance, and she smiled at me and said I didn't miss a thing. And then she started dancing, right in the middle of the hallway. She looked so damn happy that everything became simple. I wasn't going to med school, and I didn't need any reason other than the fact that I'd be miserable. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew that as long as I kept your mother as happy as she was while dancing that night, then I'd be doing something right. A few months later I told her that's when I fell in love with her. Do you know what she said?"

The car idles for a moment before he takes the keys out of the ignition. He faces me and smiles softly. "I danced because I realized I was lucky enough to meet you, patient enough to fall for you, and brave enough to be with you. And now I know you are just as brave as I am."

Carlisle stares at me, searching my eyes. "Not allowing others to get under your skin and learning to let people go are necessary, to avoid unnecessary pain. It's easier that way. But missing out on someone who danced for you outside a dirty, cramped dorm room and later became your wife and mother of your children?"

He squeezes my shoulder. "That's the kind of pain you just don't get over."

We both exit the car, and I silently process my dad's afterword. Wife and mother of my children? I had barely wrapped my head around the idea that there might be more than just physical attraction between us.

We both make our way to the living room, where my mother looks up from her kindle. "Edward, I'm glad to see you, sweetheart. How was your business trip with Bella?"

What-I shoot my dad an accusing look, which he returns with a shrug and sheepish grin. If looks could kill, then mine said, "I'm going to email mom a copy of your search history". Appropriately, Carlisle paled, then excused himself to make a call.

"It was fine, mom. Everything was fine," I automatically recite, hoping to escape to my room.

She raises an eyebrow. "Really? Is that why you look like you've been brooding in a corner again?"

My deep breath ends in a chuckle at her teasing, and I admit, "If one more person asks me how I liked Chicago, I might throw something against the wall."

"Well you're welcome to use the tea set your grandmother got me. I've been meaning to get rid of that horrible gift for years," she suggests, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Esme pats the seat next to her on the couch. "Come and sit, sweetheart. I'm guessing this is about Bella? Are you still annoyed with her?"

I eye her cautiously. How utterly convenient. "I'm not sure annoyed encompasses it all. There's been some-unexpected challenges to working with her."

She looks at me speculatively. "Are you attracted to her?"

This was not the conversation I wanted to be having right now. "It's nothing, mom," I backpedal. "I'm sure Bella and I will figure it out; there's no reason to read into anything."

She crosses her arms and wrinkles her brow. "I am not your father, sweetheart. Which means I know when you're interested in a woman and when you're pursuing a flirtation. I don't think Bella falls in the second category."

I suppress the intense urge to roll my eyes. "I appreciate your-er, concern. But there's really nothing to say. Even if there was something between us, it'll probably pass." Somehow lying to my mother only further confirmed that I didn't want to just get her into bed.

Esme's gaze, so like my own despite the missing biological link, meets mine straight on. "Could you wait it out for that long? What if she starts dating someone else?"

My jaw clenches and I look down, the sudden twist in my stomach startling me.

Her responding smile is partly understanding but mostly smug. "Are you willing to wait for something that may never happen, or explore something that already has?"

I groan and run my fingers through my hair, exhaling deeply. "You and dad are both full of relationship advice tonight, aren't you? It's almost like this was orchestrated."

She doesn't react. Great. "No comment. I will say that no matter what you decide, your father and I will always love you and support you."

I snort. "Cop-out."

She smirks. "Coward."

"And I'm a hungry old man who's wondering when dinner will be," Carlisle chimes in, his head popping into the room. "Pizza tonight?"

Mom rolls her eyes. "Fine. But no pepperoni and sausage. Your blood pressure can't handle that amount of red meat."

My dad, a grown man who manages a company, actually pouts. "Why am I getting punished if Edward's the one being an idiot?"

"I hardly think-"

"Stop it, both of you," She admonishes half-heartedly. "Edward-you have some thinking and possibly planning to do. Carlisle-if you actually used the gym membership I insisted you buy a few months ago, then maybe I would let you indulge every once in awhile. I am going to dinner with a friend, so you'll both have to fend for yourselves."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder (do women only do that when they're trying to make a point?) and stood. "Try not to starve. Keep in mind the microwave is a wonderful invention."

She walks towards the door, but Carlisle grabs her by the waist and growls something in her ear, making her laugh. "Stop it," she says, swatting at him. "Behave, both of you. And don't burn the house down."

"Thanks mom," I say, simultaneously amused and disgusted by my parents' display. Married for almost 30 years, and still almost as amorous as newlyweds. You'd think that being adopted meant I could have actually believed my parents never had sex, except for all the different ways they delighted in proving me wrong.

Carlisle turns to me after the front door closes, gleefully rubbing his hands together. "Alright, son. Let's take out the grill."

I stand up and straighten my shirt. "I'll get the fire extinguisher."

The conversation with Bella outside my hotel room replays in my head as I leave, and I arrive at the simplest conclusion.

" _I will not allow myself to lose."_

As it happens, neither will I.

…

Two hours later, after Carlisle snuck in a large pepperoni pizza while I was going over the recordings, I finally retreat to my room and softly close the door behind me.

9:00 PM. Time for a call.

The line rings once before a gruff, slightly accented voice barks, "Caine."

I clench my jaw, wondering for the millionth time if this was the right decision. Or something like it. "It's Masen. I'm calling for a monthly update."

A chair squeaks, weakly protesting the weight pressing onto it. "Of course. No small talk as usual, eh?"

I grimace. "Not usually in the mood."

A few clicks of a mouse later he replies, "Nothing new. Two of the families recently moved to the west coast; I can get you the exact addresses. Four of the families are still involved with treatment, and it looks like one family-the Hudsons-have set up a gofundme page for their daughter to receive chemo."

My throat muscles rub against each other like sandpaper as I swallow. "Send me the link. Anything else?"

I hear the sound of something being poured as Caine nonchalantly replies, "Just a reminder that you don't have to keep doing this. Not that I don't enjoy having you as a steady customer."

Not an option. "Thanks, but no thanks. You should stick to private investigating instead of therapy," I advise dryly.

He chuckles. "Talk to you next month, Masen."

I hang up the phone and close my eyes, waiting for the nausea and trembling to stop. Maybe it's masochistic of me to fixate on this mistake, but I don't know how to fully move on unless I try to make amends. Even then, I don't know if I deserve to, but spiraling never helps anyone.

The gofundme page isn't very distinctive-there aren't a lot of eye-catching graphics or interactive features. There's only one picture of a family of four, with a small blonde girl lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV bag at her side. Despite the sterility of the environment in the picture, the girl is grinning brightly with a purple stuffed giraffe tucked in next to her. According to the biography tab, the girl's name is Olivia and she turned eleven this past September. The parents look to be around the same age as Carlisle and Esme, and an older boy, no more than 15 or 16, sits next to her, a forced smile frozen on his face. Options to share the fundraising link appear under the photo, along with several comments that wish the family well and hope they'll reach their goal.

Without hesitation, I enter my credit card information and watch the progress bar hit the other end. As always, I close my laptop to avoid doing something stupid like reach out to the family and offer my condolences or even worse-an apology. I had been prepared to hear Ben, my previous partner at ABS, accuse me of being selfish and dramatic when I quit. I knew he would suggest putting the potential scandal behind us and moving forward, even though he was full of shit. I knew he would curse and threaten me once he realized I wasn't changing my mind. None of this bothered me, because I had expected it.

" _You could have stopped this, you know. You could have done something, and you chose not to. Maybe we fucked up, but you're walking away with just much as blood on your hands."_

I just hadn't expected to agree with him.

 **Next Chapter: After-party = dancing, proposals, a generously sized bathroom, and the Lincoln Memorial part II.**


	16. The Great Escape

Hi everyone! Oh man, this chapter. It was a monster to write and rewrite for many reasons, personal and practical. My most challenging entry to date; anxious to hear what you all think. This is officially the first major climax of the story, so there's a lot of angsty angst, but only so we can move (finally) onto the fluff (first date, sex, second date, sex, third date, sex, and so forth). Many thanks to the hard beta work of JulieToo; grateful for your commentary and unexpected scientific excursions :)

The Great Escape

BPOV

 **Five Years Ago**

" _I'm so glad you made it," I confessed shyly, smoothing my hands down the silky material of my dress under the dim lights of the bar. "I can't believe you rescheduled your flight. That's, uh, kind of expensive, isn't?" Jasper looked down at me and his lips curled up into a sweet smile. "It wasn't too bad. And I really wanted to see you. I wanted to spend New Year's with you." His bright and sincere eyes remained on mine, causing a rush of warmth and giddiness to spill onto my skin like melted caramel over freshly baked cake. He pulled me closer, the slight pressure of each finger around my waist leaving behind temporary imprints of disbelief and hope. I laughed softly, weightless in the best way, and wondered if we could stay in this bubble forever._

 _Half lidded eyes studied me with lazy happiness, ripe with an obvious intimacy that I believed would last. I pushed away any sense of caution when he bent slowly to press his forehead against mine. "Bella," he whispered, notes of yearning and satisfaction bleeding through the shouts and jeers around us. Somehow, he managed to say my name like it was the worst and best thing at the same time, so I closed my eyes and hoped._

 _All of the cheesy songs about kissing and lips and walking on sunshine made sense in this moment, and I fought to memorize each stirring sensation and whispered promise that brushed against my ear. When the countdown finally ended, my eardrums nearly burst with the roar of the crowd revelling in the start of the new year. "Happy New Year," I yelled, twirling around, powered by the tangible excitement around me. He grasped my hand in his, lacing the fingers together before tilting me back and kissing me once more. "Happy New Year," he agreed, the declaration administered as soft breaths against my cheek, making me smile._

 _Everything was amazing._

 _One week later_

 _Anxiety guided my jerky movements across the pool table as the impact of balls colliding into each other cracked through the low hum of the bar. "I can't wait to tell you what I want when you lose," I taunted, perching my hand on my hip. He took a sip from his beer, quirking his lips. The lighting emphasized the shadows on his face, irises an inky dark blue._

" _Nice move," he commented neutrally, avoiding eye contact and moving to the other side. Any remaining reassurance or denial evaporated, and I bit my lip. This wasn't unusual-Jasper's moods were unpredictable, undulating from quiet and distant to passionate and excited. When we were happy, I knew those memories would be stored in HD, vibrant and so sweet that my chest would ache when I replayed them later. But the fluctuation between the two extremes had finally started to weather whatever we had. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I was losing him._

 _Perhaps at this point, other people realize that no amount of glue or tape could fully repair something that's falling apart. If anything, the efforts only add to the existing mess. I wished I could walk away, unaffected and confident like I constantly had pretended to be around him. But he had somehow become integral to my future. As pathetic and shameful as it sounded, I no longer knew what to do or who to be without him in my life. I needed him-someone who had held my hand when I cried during a movie, someone who had spent New Year's with me, and someone who could make me happier than anyone else when he tried. I refused to let those memories-those opportunities for something resembling happiness-go, even if it hurt me._

 _We went back to his apartment, my flirtations having been brushed off and left to lie on the faded felt of those pool tables. This time I mirrored his silence and stiff stance, until he quietly said, "I think we should talk."_

 _So I sat and allowed him to explain, robotically nodding at the end of a sentence, smiling to punctuate that I had seen this coming (which I did) and that it was ok (which it wasn't). Surprisingly, I didn't feel angry or heartbroken. At least not yet. He proposed we stay friends after some time apart, and relief replaced the tension in my shoulders; at least we finally had a title._

 _We couldn't be romantic right now, I reasoned, but we could continue getting to know each other without the influence of sex. Surprisingly, it was almost too easy. After a few months, we managed to establish the trust and understanding that was absent when we had been dating. This time I didn't hide behind my armor of false bravado; I showed him my insecurities, and hoped he liked me enough to eventually try again. We would be better and succeed where we had failed._

 _A year later, on the same day that we had met, I woke up naked in his bed and felt a familiar breeze awakening a trail of goosebumps on my arms. Tears pricked behind my eyes as the same raw, unsettling emptiness gripped my chest, only this time splitting it open._

 _And that's when I knew my heart was breaking._

"You look tired, Bells. Have you been getting enough sleep? Eating enough vegetables?" My dad, an ex-sheriff, interrogates me like I've committed a crime: second degree in negligent dieting.

I cross my legs on the leather couch and adjust my laptop away from the glare created by the window. "I'm great, dad. Really. Work has been a bit busier than usual, so I've had to get takeout a few times, but everything will settle down next month."

His forehead wrinkles with concern, and I'm disheartened when I do a quick scan and find new, deeply set lines etched onto his face. His hair is slightly longer than usual, the peppered strands curling beneath his ears and refusing to flatten to his head, creating a messy dark halo. Thick eyebrows frame tired eyes that seem to sink into his face more every time I skyped him. He reaches up to scratch his hand, the skin tanned from his time out in the field, and I spot two Band-aids on his index and thumb.

"Did you get into another accident?" I ask, alarmed. "I thought you replaced the broken lawnmower with a new one."

"I did," he protests. "I've been getting back into woodworking and I wasn't being too careful with the handsaw. It's fine, I went to get it checked out and they discharged me within a few hours."

"You went to the hospital?" My voice escalates with concern and annoyed surprise. "Why didn't you say anything? And don't tell me it wasn't a big deal. I know how much you hate hospitals."

His smile is thin. "Can't avoid that place anymore in my age, Bells."

Ignoring the familiar sinking motion in my stomach, I laugh and decide to remind him how "frail" and "fragile" he is. "You retired as a sheriff to become a full time farmer, dad. I hardly think you're in bad shape."

My childhood was a happy one, despite some of the blemishes that stained prominent memories. Renee had been volatile and selfish, constantly berating my father and me over how unhappy she was and how little we could contribute. She had me when she was young and married my father when she was even younger, the disappointment of her unsatisfying life sinking in more deeply after each birthday, anniversary, and vacation. I tried to excuse her erratic behavior as assertive parenting or meaningless venting when it actually acted as a slow poison, the kind that you think is harmless until you're choking.

In response, my dad had been the one attending the band practices, school plays, and graduation ceremonies. He would calmly sweep away the broken glass after each outburst and take me for ice cream, reminding me how loved I was when we both knew she couldn't. I felt protected during these moments and I was grateful for his temporary refuge.

That's why each flimsy explanation to defend her actions and desperate plea for me to be better only deepened the existing cuts, leading me to wonder if recovery was even possible.

On the night of my mother's funeral, my dad and I had fought so fiercely that we didn't speak for six months afterwards, when he called to wish me a happy birthday. I broke down in tears. The next day, I flew back to Forks and spent the week revisiting our family history, a complete rewrite from my perspective, and the damage that had been done. That was the first time I saw my father cry in front of me, incomplete apologies spilling as quickly as his tears. The week was a painful but necessary surgery to rid ourselves of her infection so we could finally, finally heal.

My dad and I still disagree on a number of issues, but neither of us feel the need to censor ourselves in front of each other. Aside from sex and cooties, I tell him everything.

My father left the force shortly after to spend his time and energy on his land, inadvertently following in his dad's footsteps. He was able to grow a sizable field of crops, prompting his neighbors to suggest that he sell them in local public markets or natural food stores. Initially, he refused and argued he was simply too tired to invest in something new and significant. But it became clear, especially after a strained marriage and recently reconciled relationship with his daughter, that he was simply afraid. Afraid to spend time on something that might fail because he wouldn't be left with anything.

I remember when he told me and the way he avoided my eyes, his jaw clenched as two fat teardrops rolled down my cheeks. I remember how tightly his fists clenched the kitchen sink, biting into the wood. And I remember telling him that I would help and invest in what I thought was a great business idea, reminding him, "I'd never leave you dad. Whatever happens, I'll be there."

Two years later, Swansong Farms has grown into the biggest produce distributor in our small town of Forks, and he has a station at the Pike Place Market in Seattle. Not bad for a cop whose biggest bust was a gambling ring run by local high schoolers.

"Bells? Everything ok?" He asks, peering more closely into the camera.

I barely hide my smile. "I don't think you can see my thoughts no matter how hard you try, dad."

He scoffs. "You inherited my eyes, coloring, and personality. I'm never too far off. You might as well just tell me what's going on to avoid embarrassing yourself." Wait, is sass hereditary?

I laugh lightly. "It's just work. Something strange happened during my trip to Chicago. Something...not exactly professional. I've dealt with it though." The urge to twiddle my thumbs and remind him that I went to church just last month arises, even if it was to use their bathroom.

He narrows his eyes, his paternal alarm blaring. "How not professional?"

I decide to give him the PG version. "Suffice to say, a co-worker...expressed his interest in me, and I told him that I didn't think it was a good idea." I can't lie to him, but I don't have to tell him the entire truth either.

Dad crosses his arms and sits back. "Did you also tell him you're a pretty good shot?"

"Dad. Be serious." Although he's totally right. I know my way around a semi-automatic pistol.

"I don't joke about jerks who don't understand no, Bells." The stronger warning in his tone cues the Jaws theme to play in my head. Next topic.

"It's fine. How are you? Were you able to hire a new finance manager?" I straighten with eagerness, excited to hear about their latest progress.

"It's...an ongoing process," he hedges. "I've scheduled a few more interviews next week, so we'll see what happens."

If I weren't his daughter, I would've missed the slight hitch in his voice and the way his face drops in disappointment.

"Haven't you been hiring for a few weeks now? Given the size of Swansong, isn't it difficult to manage everything among you and your staff?" I ask, frowning.

He shrugs. "It's not so bad. There's more than enough of us to know how to use a calculator." Still, the tired and almost worried look in his eyes doesn't fade and a mixture of confusion and foreboding causes my eyebrows to knit together.

I swallow and brush my bangs back, trying to look as reassuring as possible. "You know you can tell me anything, dad. And I still have a lot of vacation days left. Forks is gorgeous around this time," I coax.

He clears his throat and blinks, as if to shake off my offer. "I know, Bells, but I promise everything's fine. You don't need to be worrying about me in my retirement, when you're barely eating."

Drama queen. "I said takeout, dad. That's still food. I mean, Chipotle hasn't had the best year, but I haven't gotten sick." I wink. "Must be all that organic produce you forced me to eat as a kid."

"Can't force you to eat them now, apparently," he replies, disgruntled.

I laugh loudly, a bit too much for his benefit, and feel satisfaction curl around me when I see a small smile. My dad was stubborn, but not an idiot. If there was a problem, he might not come to me first, but I wouldn't be the last person he'd call either. For now, I could only try to pull some of the latest financial information and distract him from the situation.

"Aside from the idiot co-worker, are you seeing anyone special?" He asks nonchalantly, discomfort causing his eyes to shift away once, twice, before settling on mine.

"James McAvoy recently got divorced," I announce, fist-pumping. "Fingers crossed he finally returns my emails." Subtly addressed from Notacrazystalker and youwererobbedoscars2008 .

He shoots me an exasperated look, the kind that verifies his suspicion that I'm still a dork underneath the fancy city wrapping. "People who know you exist."

"How dare you," I fake outrage before grinning. "It's not a priority for me." Cue sassy, Sex and the City type music, complete with a wind machine.

"What about that lawyer you mentioned-"

"No, dad," I interject, crossing my arms. "There's just...no one worth it. Except James, I mean." Translation: I am not risking my career for a casual whatevership. Especially because I know exactly how that can end.

My dad puts on his stubborn face. "How do you know if someone's worth it unless you give him the chance to prove it?" His eyes take on a determined glint. "You're much stronger than you were back then, Bella. And no matter what happens, I'll be there."

His recitation of the same words I'd used to silence his doubts over starting his farm elicit a faint stinging at the back of my eyes.

"I wish things were easy, but you and I both know they aren't. Expecting them to be only makes it easier to fall and bruise," I protest, even as my stomach sinks when I realize that my precious line can be retraced and redrawn.

My dad, having been in an abusive relationship with the love of his life for almost twenty years, simply folds his hands and stares back resolutely. "They can be, baby girl. They should be."

* * *

It's the night of the after-party and I sit in my prom dress, resisting the urge to chew my lip nervously and pat down my newly dyed hair that replaced the previous caramel blonde. Whatever. At least I didn't twirl around and giggle with girlish excitement.

Ok, there may have been a twirl earlier.

But this dress makes it acceptable to do so-the slinky, velvet fabric clings to my figure and flares towards the bottom, a smooth dark waterfall that highlights my loosely curled mahogany locks. The heels are an unregistered weapon, which is perfect if someone tries to feel me up. I blot my scarlet painted lips for the fourth time before reapplying. I look like a 1920s silent film star, alluring and mysterious, emphasized by the dark eye makeup I'd learned to apply via YouTube tutorial.

When the car pulls up outside of the mansion, I take care getting out so I don't trip or fall on my face. Jay Gatsby would be envious of my presence here tonight-chauffeured limos and Lincolns conquer the racetrack driveway, their occupants posing and laughing in sparkly dresses and sleek suits. The enormous bay side windows on the first floor are flooded with light, while the faint sounds of a quartet warming up can be heard from the entrance.

Welcome to the White House Correspondent's Dinner (Nerd Prom) After Party.

Although various reporters, political staff, and miscellaneous celebrities clump around, the ballroom still feels excessively expansive, like one of the illusions from _Inception_. I inhale shakily and smooth down my dress, reminding myself that it's just another room filled with strangers who don't matter. With that thought, I gladly make my way through the party by appetizer, inconspicuously following the various food trays and sipping on flutes of champagne.

For the next half hour, I perform the standard DC intro-type of career, location of headquarters, seniority of position, and implied benefits-nauseatingly concluding with the exchange of a business card and if you're extra ambitious (re: obnoxious), a phone number. Networking is a valuable skill, especially for those unemployed. But there is a time, place, and level of appropriate pushiness for making connections. The after party for nerd prom is exempt from all three.

Just as I decide to have another chocolate strawberry even if it makes me look three months pregnant, a familiar smooth voice from behind observes, "You've been avoiding me."

I frantically look for a reflective surface to check for random chocolate smudges on my mouth. No such luck. There are over a dozen models and ex-models in the room; how is this place not stocked with mirrors?

"Well you've cornered me. So talk." I turn around and school my features to a neutral expression.

Holy hot crotch balls of hell. Edward stands across from me, his tall frame and broad shoulders lovingly hugged in (what's probably) Armani. Onyx suit, crimson tie, and a defined, stubble free jaw. He'd even gotten a haircut that trimmed some of the previously longer strands, topping off a neat, clean look.

The universe is sending me a huge "fuck you" at my decision to walk away.

His hand twitches at his side. "I think it'd be an oversight if I didn't say you look beautiful tonight."

I eye him suspiciously. "Thank you." Music drowns out the low chatter as the string quartet starts to play a familiar piece, something that I've probably heard in an Apple commercial. "Dance with me?" He asks, eyes calculating in a way I don't understand. Hesitation immobilizes me briefly before curiosity wins. I nod sharply and walk to the dance floor, feeling him follow me.

We fluidly position ourselves, my hand setting on his shoulder while his secures around my waist. I look down to situate my feet so I don't accidentally stab him with my heels.

Too many witnesses.

"It's fine," Edward says, amused. "I'm well aware of the risk I'm taking by dancing with you."

Exasperated, I relent and follow his rhythm."You know, most men would like to forget they got beat up by a girl." Step left, step left, slide.

"It was one kick," he corrected. Spin. "And I don't mention it to punish you. I'm impressed that we've come so far." He stops to bend me backward, my hair skimming past my shoulder.

I swallow and it feels like my entire head moves with the motion. "Professionally speaking."

Carefully winding me up again, his hands slide up my back like a musician strumming a guitar. He doesn't retreat and my breath hitches at the speculative glint in his eyes. "Not really. That's what I want to talk about, actually." Even with him embodying every virgin's fantasy of tall, dark and handsome doesn't stop the dread that curls in my stomach.

"Right here? Now?"

His lips turn up into a knowing smile. Step forward, step forward, spin. "This venue is flooded with influential people. I think we can avoid doing anything to embarrass ourselves or draw attention, don't you?" As usual, he pulls my pigtails first before daring me to swallow a worm.

He gently pushes me closer, my face coaxed towards his determined gaze. "You asked me what I want, so I'll tell you. I think we should see each other outside of the office...date. It's clear we're attracted to each other and it'd be a mistake to continue dismissing it." His voice is matter of fact, as if he's discussing the latest budget review or research proposal.

"That's it?" I asked, unimpressed. Step backward, step right. "You think we should spend time together, and I'm supposed to agree because if I don't, then I'm an idiot for not giving whatever this is a chance?"

Did he really think he could outsmart me into submission?

Uncertainty causes his left eye to twitch, as confusion replaces his previous confidence. "I'm telling you what I think we should do and I'm asking for your opinion."

"You didn't ask," I point out slowly. "So I'm telling you that your approach sucks."

Step backward, step backward, stumble forward. "Were you expecting candy and flowers?" He asks sarcastically, his face dark with frustration. His hand flexes on my waist. "I think we're a bit past that, don't you?"

I narrow my eyes. "I was expecting a question, not a condescending explanation of why I should agree with you." Actually, I wasn't expecting anything, so I'm thrown by this addendum to the truce he originally proposed two months ago.

Finally, the music stops and light applause fills the room. The sharp jawline clenches and those green eyes bore into mine with an undisguised heat. "Oh, I have many questions, Bella, but right now I want an answer. Yes or no?"

The dance is over, and I'm done following. "It's a no to casual sex and hooking up, especially at the office." No matter how good you look in that fucking suit.

The heady events of Chicago, coupled with my dad's recent words, lingered. I take a deep breath, wondering if I'll regret what I say next.

"You're a businessman, Edward," I point out. "So make me an offer. But this time, don't automatically assume I'll say yes."

I pull away slightly, and he takes the hint, loosening his grip even though the intensity in his eyes continues to pin me down. The crowd starts to disperse from the main dance floor. "Monday night," he proposes. "I'll book a conference room and we can negotiate the details."

Dating in 2016: Hammering out the details in a conference room. Not unlike some of the "couples" in this room. I cross my arms. "How romantic."

He shrugs, lifting those broad shoulders that I suspect are buoyed by shoulder pads. Because otherwise, damn. "Not yet. Oh, and when I say Monday night, I mean after everyone in the building has left. I don't think we need an audience for what might happen." The lowered, husky timbre erects goosebumps along my arms.

Like an idiot, I take the bait. "And what would that be?"

"I can't say. I don't want to automatically assume anything." A shit eating grin appears, the dimple taunting me in full view.

Note to self: Restock hard liquor supply in apartment on Sunday night. And look up baseball bats on eBay. Because reasons.

Huh. So we're...doing this. I smooth my hair back, unable to stay still any longer. "Whatever happens...won't be easy," I warn. "I don't even know if it'll be worth it." Maybe that's a bit too honest, but if he wanted to insistently push for more, then I had no problem reminding him of the consequences that come with it.

Deliberation colors his face before it's replaced by a look of determination. Without a word, he places a hand on my waist to guide me forward again, and I'm just curious and stunned enough to move. His strides, determined and wide, force me to walk at twice my normal pace, earning a few raised eyebrows and questioning looks from the guests around us.

Wait, is that Michael Fassbender?

Trying to memorize the actor's position, I don't notice until the door closes that Edward has dragged me into-yep, a large bathroom. Wide Armani-clad shoulders surround me, crowding my field of vision. There's probably an inch separating us, but I don't bother to see if there's a ruler lying around because holy shit he's close. Flecks of blue submerged in green sweep across my body. Each strategic linger-neck, breasts, stomach, lower, and reverse-burns through the velvet, heightening my restlessness.

His hands grip my shoulders and slide up my neck to tilt my face towards him. My breaths are shallow, barely registering above the pounding of my pulse, and I watch his eyes lower with barely concealed desire. The heat and pressure from his touch makes my chest flush, my nipples rubbing insistently against the fabric.

Jesus, I want. I want so much I need. The temptation to reach out and take plants itself in my brain, shooting up to now, now, right fucking now.

With that thought, my hands grab the bottom of his silk, crimson tie and I pull him towards me.

Soft. Warm. Wet. His chest expands with a sharply inhaled breath that I mimic before the soft and warm lips move against mine, the sticky wetness of my lipstain attaching and detaching, leaving shiny red traces behind. Oddly, our pace is slow and confusingly sweet, as if we have all the time in the world.

The push and pull of our lips occur at the same rhythm, hitting the right notes at the wrong time. I wait a beat to adjust to his lead, and his teeth sink into my bottom lip just as my tongue traces his upper one teasingly. Flickers of escalating want mark a crescendo in pressure and tempo while twin tongues dance around each other. His overpowering warmth draws me closer, grabbing his shoulders for support.

A low growl vibrates through his chest and before I can blink or breathe, he's hoisted me up against the wall, firmly securing his hands around my thighs and hungrily seeking a different kind of entrance. My hands grip his soft hair firmly as I accept his invitation and spread, needing more. We sink our fingers harder into each other's skin, protesting the barriers and playing the sexiest version of who can hold their breath the longest. I break, resentment filling my lungs, and scratch against the back of his neck with my manicured nails. Fuck yes. He follows, pressing his mouth lower while my lips part on a moan. I'm drowning and dizzy and-

Suddenly, I hear laughter outside the door as the fashionably late guests arrive, hanging their coats and clinking champagne glasses.

A thousand curses arrive at the tip of my tongue, even as sanity slowly returns. We both stop and sigh heavily, almost at the same time.

He assesses me with a half-lidded look, the cloudiness of desire obscured by annoyance and resignation, making me chuckle. We're embarrassed but momentarily satisfied at finally receiving a taste after so many previous unfulfilled encounters.

He squeezes my arms as a lazy smirk appears. "It's worth it," he answers thickly.

No arguments here. Mostly because I suspect my neurons weren't firing at full speed yet. I take another deep breath and focus on adjusting my dress and hair. "Monday," I respond breathlessly, shooting him a warning look at his smug grin. "And if you tell anyone about this-"

His grin grows wider. "Yes?"

I point at him. "Don't tell anyone about this." So not ready for that.

He runs his fingers through the tangled auburn mess, and I clench my fists at my side. On anyone else, the combination of the abnormal color and evidence of electrocution would look weird, but it only made him more appealing. Jerk. The tie is skewed around his neck, where I spy half crescent indentations from my nails. Whoops. After some final touch ups, we both carefully open the door and exit the site of our momentary tryst. His phone vibrates but he ignores it and faces me. For a minute, he stands there and just stares, as if memorizing every detail about what just happened. His gaze is triumphant, and I absently wonder what I look like.

"I'll be right back," he says, and I blink, nodding sharply. Anxiety wars with excitement.

My dad and Rose are right-I can't keep rejecting the obvious and getting in my own way. I just wish that I felt more stable in my decision to move forward.

"Bella?"

I said "forward", universe.

"Jasper," I greet cautiously, pivoting around to him in a navy tux. "You're here on behalf of your boss, I assume." How is it that tuxes always disguise how rotten a guy's center is underneath its sexy wrapping?

Jasper blinks slowly, straightening his tie, which matches the blue of his eyes. "I am. You're here with Carl, right? He's still your boss?"

I manage not to wince over his familiarity with Carl but count how many times he's attended company functions with me in the past. Five. Ugh.

"Yes, and I actually need to find him," I respond pointedly. Translation: I don't want to talk. Not right now. Not after I just made out with my boss in the bathroom that's right next to us.

Jasper nods slowly, putting his hands in his suit jacket. "I like the hair," he observes. "It suits you."

"Thanks," I reply flatly. "You look...tired." And unhealthy. Dark circles form shadows under his eyes, his skin paler than usual. He looks like a zombie, frankly, and I have no interest in being robbed of my brains for his next meal.

His lips stretch into a reluctant smile, and he relaxes a bit. "It's been an exhausting couple of weeks. How've you been?" The genuine concern in his voice startles me, and I open my mouth to respond.

But then his eyes widen as his head tilts in confusion, almost shock. He manages to recover quickly, taking his hands out from his pockets and standing a bit taller. My eyebrows knit together in curiosity, following his gaze behind me-and seeing the back of Edward's head next to a dark-haired woman. Jesus, she's practically wrapped around him. What the fuck is he-ok, deep breaths. You know you jump to conclusions and then wind up kicking people in coffee shops.

He whispers something in her ear, making her giggle, and I consider strutting up to him and slapping him across the face. Because that wouldn't be an overreaction. Finally, he turns around to face us, and I feel my body slacken with shocked recognition.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

A barrage of emotions races through my veins like speeding cars until they collide, the impact causing disappointment, anger and humiliation to crash into me. My palms become slick with sweat as my mouth parts in surprise. The same voice that encouraged the kick that started it all resurfaces, only this time, it's yelling, "RUN. LEAVE NOW."

And once again, I do exactly what it tells me.

Edward tenses but I'm too busy fighting the urge to sprint past him.

Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out. This is fine. It's not weird that we all know each other like some fucked up soap opera. It's not weird that we know each other biblically, possibly, at some point.

Oh God.

Alice smiles nervously, her eyes flickering uncertainly to Jasper and then back to me. I can't exactly remember what she looked like from her Facebook profile five years ago, but I recall that she was and still is, a knockout. Had we been friends, I might've complimented the color and cut of her dress, and not just stand here like a speechless idiot.

"Excuse me," I mutter, strutting past them around the corner to the office that was used to check people in earlier. Luckily, the handle turns with a click, and I usher myself inside.

The insulation of the walls blocks out the sounds of the party outside, so I only hear my unsteady breaths as the cool sensation of the solid door soothes my overheated skin.

It's time to get the fuck out of here. Processing everything will take a ride home, a bottle of tequila, and a lively phone call with Rose.

A knock occurs right below my ear, and I back away from the door, mentally preparing myself and rolling my shoulders backward. There's no reason I can't leave now, having put in my time with familiar and unfamiliar faces and consumed a quarter of the appetizers. Worst case scenario, Edward tries to explain himself, which is actually just an opportunity to use my high kick on a person instead of the punching bag in my kickboxing classes.

The creak of the door swinging open makes my fists clench as I slowly turn around. Nervous energy crackles through my body, so I take a shuddering breath that seems to expand and echo in the small office.

"Bella?" Jasper steps in, perpetually concerned. Seriously, when was the last time he didn't look like someone canceled his Wall Street Journal subscription?

"I'm fully aware I'm probably being dramatic right now," I start. "But I need to get out of here. Are they still out there?"

His brow furrows as he assesses me quietly, closing the door behind him. "I don't think Edward Masen will be leaving anytime soon. Alice left to take a call." The implied question in his update is obvious, but I ignore it. I need Rose or my dad. Not him.

"Ok, I need to figure out how to escape without being noticed," I say frantically, my mind automatically flashing to _Alias_ and _24_ scenarios that probably require a level of physical fitness I don't have.

"Bella, slow down. Talk to me. How do you know-"

"He's my boss," I interrupt, walking past him to the door and peeking outside. Unsurprisingly, Edward's practically prowling around the entrance, impatiently tapping his finger on his sleeve.

"Listen," I state firmly. "I can't talk about this right now. I just need to leave. So either help me, or stop asking me questions when I have more than a few of my own. Ok?" The command in my voice sharply diverts from the obvious questions-How? When? Why? Fuck, why does he know her, of all people?

CLANG! I whirl around to see that MacGyver has opened one of the bay windows leading out to the carefully manicured front lawn, and my eyebrows climb to my forehead.

"That works," I say, nodding approvingly.

He holds his hand out. "Come on."

Wait. "I took a car here. Do you think-"

"I can give you a lift," he responds, watching me decide. Mind made up, I take a deep breath and gather the bottom fabric of my dress before boosting myself to the top of the ledge and swinging my feet over, gravity propelling me onto the grass.

I may or may not have squealed at a frequency that only pigs can hear.

Jasper winces and repeats my movements, albeit in a much smoother fashion. We both glance around to make sure there's no one behind us. Clear. "Let's go!" he yells, jogging past me.

"Heels, heels, I am wearing death traps-Jasper!" I yelp, before stopping to stand next to him and a shiny black motorcycle that obviously isn't his.

Or at least that's what I think until he pulls out two helmets. "What the-no!" I yell, taking a step back. "You're insane if you think I'm getting on that thing with this dress." I hoist up the silky fabric almost accusingly, but he rolls his eyes. "You have a choice to make, Bella," he points out. "And I don't think there are any taxis here."

I clench my fists before reaching up to shake my hair out. He raises an eyebrow in question. "Well, if I'm going to be on a motorcycle, then I'm going to feel the fucking wind run through my hair," I snap.

He opens his mouth, presumably to lecture me on motorcycle safety or point out how ridiculous I was acting, so I growl, "Don't. Give me the goddamn helmet." I quickly fasten it just as two suspiciously familiar silhouettes walk out of the mansion.

"Time to go!" I exclaim, and can't help but feel a little thrill (right after I've said a quick prayer) when the bike starts up, the vibrations coursing through the lower half of my body.

The motorcycle swerves around, and I quickly grab onto Jasper, ignoring the sudden closeness and focusing on keeping upright instead. "Hold on!" Jasper shouts above the noise. The adrenaline surges through me as we leave all the shiny cars and shinier people behind, the street lamps rhythmically bouncing past us while I try not to scream. I don't consider myself an adrenaline junkie, but I can't deny the appeal-it's not so much freedom itself that you feel but rather an escape from the stresses of your life, whether it was a horrible job, fucked up family, or in my case-

The discovery that my boss and his ex have a history.

Far too soon, Jasper pulls up into a parking lot near the Capitol, and I blink, confused. He tosses his helmet aside before reaching for mine, and I just stare. What now?

"Well, at least it's a nice night," he mutters, his hand brushing the blonde locks nervously. "You coming?"

I take another deep breath. "Where are we headed?"

He smiles bitterly and looks to a sign behind me. "Where else?"

LINCOLN MEMORIAL

...

"So you work with Edward Masen," he guesses, walking slowly next to me as I debate taking off my sexy but inhumane heels. "I'm guessing you didn't know about Alice."

I close my eyes tightly, fighting the wave of nausea. "Déjà vu," I mutter. My bitter laugh is swept away by the winter gust that cuts my exposed skin. "I'm beginning to think I should ask every guy I meet if he's dated her. After the standard 'are you a serial killer?' question."

My hands rub my bare arms as shivers break out across my skin. He glances at me and shrugs his jacket off his shoulders. I'm just frozen enough to accept his peace offering, refusing to get sick on top of everything else. We walk side by side, each step identically matching the other's until I maneuver myself onto a bench. It's difficult to tell if the crimson inner lining of my heels are from the fabric or my blood at this point.

Jasper glances at me out of the corner of his eye, so I ignore him, staring out at the reflecting pool instead.

"Bella, Edward and Alice aren't together," he explains. "They were both foster kids who were adopted around the same time by families in the same neighborhood. They grew up together, but from what Alice has told me, he's the closest thing she has to a brother."

What the fuck? My head turns towards his in, you guessed it, shock. "I didn't realize-I didn't know that Edward was adopted," I sputter. Family histories weren't really covered between the sultry staredowns, hotel rendezvous, and bathroom trysts. Although that does explain quite a bit.

Jasper's curious gaze doesn't waver so I look away. "I assume it's inappropriate for me to ask what's going on between the two of you." The confusion becomes more pronounced, but hell if I'm going to provide any answers.

"You assume correctly," I answer stubbornly, rubbing my arms against my sides.

We sit in silence for a few more seconds, until I realize I don't have to sit out here with him and freeze to death. Again. "Thank you for busting me out. I'm going to call an uber and go home." I type in the request, breathing on my fingers to keep warm.

"Fair enough," he responds quietly. "If you want to talk, I'm here."

Really? How could he possibly think that was the best thing to say right now?

"Don't say that," I bark. "You and I both know you don't mean it."

I feel him tense, then square his shoulders. "I do, Bella. But I understand if you don't believe me. The thing is, I'm also done taking the blame. I did it for years with Alice, and I'm not going to do it with you. If you don't want to talk or see me, that's fine. But I'm not going to try to be your friend and continue to be punished for who I was."

I stare at him incredulously. His words make sense, but his slightly defensive attitude scrapes away whatever peace I made from our last meeting in the park. The emotional turmoil from the events of night spill over as past meets present, leaking unfocused frustration that picks at previous wounds.

"Are you seriously pissed at me for being angry with you?" I ask disbelievingly."You left, Jasper. I didn't hear from you for two years. I get to be angry and upset. Frankly I get to push you into that stupid pool."

I stand, incensed to make him understand that I can't keep having this fight over and over again.

"You know how people say that breaking up with someone was actually the best thing that ever happened to them, years later?" I demand. "Well I don't get that. I don't. Because while I am proud of myself for picking up the pieces and replacing the ones that you helped damage, I'm not grateful. It's not some kind of valuable learning experience. It's just unnecessary pain that you mostly recover from, until you go on a date or see a movie or eat at a restaurant and you remember something from your time with this person. Maybe you're not pining for them anymore or wishing things had been different, but you sit there and you think it's so fucking unfair that you wasted all of your firsts on this person, hoping things would change until all you're left with are fucking learning experiences."

"I know I was naive and I know I made mistakes," I continue through numbed lips, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "But you do not get to assume you know how I feel. You were one of the hardest things I've ever had to go through. And just because I've recovered does not make me whole."

My choppy breaths are visibly expelled into the night, clouds of leftover rage that fade into particles of regret and sadness. I may not be heartbroken this time, but it's clear I haven't completely moved on either.

How did we get here? How did I?

It hits me with blinding clarity that somehow, I'm in the same position that Jasper was in two years ago, when Alice showed up at his apartment.

"If Alice hadn't shown up at your door, alone and pregnant, and just met you in a coffeeshop-would you have reconnected with her? Would you have tried to be friends?" I ask accusingly.

"I would have met with her," he answers cautiously. "I'm not sure if we could've been friends."

He pauses again, a tired expression semi-permanently etched onto his face. "I want to fix things but not if you think they can't be. You told me to stop blaming myself, Bella. Can you?"

The accusing edge is absent this time and I hear the thump of the ball landing in my court. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.

Two years ago, I would have felt my entire being soften and relax, my own feelings overtaken by the urge to smooth his hair, hold his hand, and forgive him. I would have given him a hug, secretly hoping he would see that I was always going to be there for him, that even though his heart had been broken, I was willing to hold the pieces together. I would have given him my comfort, my friendship, and my love.

Basically, I would have given him a lot more of me than he deserved.

"Jasper-" I start tentatively, "I get it. I get why you're trying to make amends. But it's...difficult for me not to be defensive when you say you missed me or want to fix things, because I can't allow myself to believe you. I can't allow myself to believe anyone, and based on tonight, I think I'm proven right again. I just-" I break off, though I can feel the words claw at me, creating ribbons of silenced frustration that pile up to obscure the chasm between us. I shoot him a frantic, almost pleading look, wondering if he'll understand what I'm trying to articulate.

His features collapse with sympathy as he looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. He reaches up and mimics grabbing a crown off my head and carefully setting it down next to me. His head cocks as if to say, "Go ahead. I'll hold onto this while you pretend you're ok."

"You're not Alice," Jasper asserts gently. "And Edward isn't me. From what I've heard, he isn't a bad guy. I understand you're anxious and maybe afraid of being with someone else. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I just want to remind you, as someone who knows you, that you're stronger than you think. You always have been." His voice grows louder and steadier. "Don't let anyone, least of all me, get in the way of something you deserve."

The sincerity in his gaze, devoid of any guilt or remnants from our whatevership strikes one of the remaining vulnerable areas in my chest.

For the first time since he's been back, I want to talk to him, not at him.

"I want my friend back," I blurt, the words coming out in a rush. "I want the guy who held my hand at my mother's funeral and bought me ice cream afterwards. I don't want blurred lines, drunken hook-ups, or shouting matches at iconic landmarks. I don't even want glimpses of happiness or shitty imitations of what a relationship should be like. I-"

A disbelieving laugh escapes me. "I want to be able to talk about how fucked up it is that my boss asked me out right before I saw him wrapped around my ex's ex. Is that possible?"

Surprisingly, I'm not ashamed of my confession. If anything, it feels like I've rediscovered a scrap of rusted optimism that may be salvageable but for a different structure. Something more stable and sustainable. Instead of the automatic "this is a mistake", I think, "what if it isn't?"

Jasper's gaze becomes speculative and he shifts closer, his knee brushing against mine. "Bella, do you still have feelings for me?" He asks forcefully, blue eyes blazing. "If I told you I was in love with you and wanted to be with you, would you say yes?"

Contrary to popular media, there usually isn't a moment when you realize you're finally over someone. The best you can hope for is that you can walk away, without feeling upset or empty, or wanting to cast blame and fault. Maybe there are still pieces of you missing, or maybe you needed to discard them because they no longer fit who you are.

Two years ago, I would have given up anything for us to work. And I imagine how this would play out, this momentary illusion, before realizing that it can never exist. My happiness, however complicated and elusive, no longer depended upon him. I get to make the choice to start over as friends and feel like it's actually a choice.

His eyes cool with determination. "Bella, I don't have feelings for you and I don't think I ever will again. All I can offer is my friendship and some ice cream. Is that enough?"

My phone vibrates, and I see that it's an unknown number. "My uber is here," I say instead. "This isn't over. I just...I need to think things through."

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I know."

With one last nod, I gather up my dress and walk to the car, wondering when the hell my life became so complicated.

…

Luckily (?) I don't see or hear from Edward on Monday, since both of us are kept in several different conference rooms. By the time it's 6 PM, I debate whether to stay or leave.

The problem is, the more I defended my choice to not repeat the past, the more it started to sound like I never left. It made sense two years ago to erect iron walls around my emotions and relationship-oriented vulnerabilities; I was being smart and careful. But the longer I stay in my self-constructed home, the more trapped I feel, until it becomes obvious that those beautiful walls aren't there by choice but by fear. I can't claim that I'm much happier single than in a relationship when I've never actually been in a relationship. I can't say that I don't want to start over and be friends with someone who understands how I feel and what I'm going through.

For now, I can't say no to either possibility at all.

With that terrifyingly honest thought, I smooth down my dress and walk to Edward's office, knocking when I see him typing at his computer.

"It's Monday night," I remind him weakly. "Do you still want to do this?" The out is obvious, and my breathing stutters when I realize I don't want him to take it.

He stands, buttoning his jacket over his flat stomach. "Conference room A is open. Shall we?"

I nod and walk straight ahead, confused by the familiar clinical tone and business-like demeanor. Apparently, exes of foster sisters and bathroom makeouts with a co-worker don't faze the almighty Edward Masen.

He rounds the wide, cherry wood table to take a seat across from me in the dimly lit room. He leans back, the suit jacket stretching across the shoulders I clutched on Saturday. Clutched. Jesus.

His fingers drum on the table rhythmically, green eyes fixed on me. "You know Jasper Hale," he confirms flatly.

I sit up straighter, placing my hands on the table so he knows they're not trembling. "Yes. And you have a history with Alice Brandon."

There's more that needs to be said-explanations and apologies-but for now, we both silently acknowledge our less than stellar starting point and whether we want to move forward. His expression grows shuttered, and I inhale shakily, preparing myself for the rejection.

"Three dates," he proposes, no trace of indecision in his voice. "Outside of the office in a public place. I can meet you there or drive you, but I take you home afterwards each time. We don't have to tell anyone at the office, and we'll continue to be professional and work together. During business hours, that is. That's my offer, Bella. Now let's negotiate."

Let's not. "Done," I respond crisply, brushing my hair back to appease some of my restlessness.

He blinks. "You're not going to fight me on anything?" The incredulity in his tone is comical.

My lips quirk before I wryly admit, "I think I speak for both of us when I say that I'm tired of fighting."

His gaze softens and we both stand, my body relaxing as I lean against the chair, one arm balancing my weight. A sigh works its way out of me, and I hear him approach.

"What happened after you left?" He asks quietly. I shake my head. "Can we talk about this later? I know this isn't typical behavior, but I-I can't right now." To my horror, my eyes start to water as the emotional fallout from the weekend finally floods my senses.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, which immediately hitches when I feel him move closer to stand in front of me. Soft suit fabric brushes against my arms and then my cheek until he tentatively pushes me closer, my head resting against his chest. The spicy scent of his cologne wraps around me, and my body folds into his as I allow myself a moment of nothingness. I forget who this is, who his best friend/foster sister is, who she used to date, who is trying to be my friend.

It's not exactly comfortable and it doesn't really make sense. But neither do we, especially given recent developments. We were already too complicated, but maybe that would fade. Maybe not. But I could no longer stay inside my castle.

The warmth from his body recedes immediately after we separate, but I decide to pocket a slice of the nothingness.

It's only after I get home that I unwrap it, faintly wondering why this nothingness doesn't make me numb but stable. With him, I feel like I'm walking on solid ground.

I pull out my phone to text Jasper. Is it enough?

"Let's find out."

 **Next Chapter: After party from EPOV, Rose + Bella, First Date :)**


	17. The First Date

HI out there! So real life sucks, but is slowly righting itself, just in time for the holidays. I will be spending eleven-count 'em-days with my parents, so I'll try to get some more writing in-the way an ostrich buries its head in the sand-and post the next chapter a bit more quickly than this one. Things are about to get a bit shaky and lemon-y y'all. Let the juggling begin! As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following! And if you haven't already-check out and vote in the P.S. I Love You Contest! Link: u/8203320/P-S-I-Love-You-Contest

EPOV

I take another sip of my coffee, wondering why the caffeinated rush hasn't hit me yet. Exhaustion draws my body forward like a dazed marionette, and I dig my nails into my thigh to stay awake.

I spent yesterday afternoon at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History with Anna, exploring the recently opened clownfish exhibit. Her excited shrieks and babbling resulted in a few warning looks but luckily, she quieted down after a few minutes. Alice joined us for dinner back at her apartment, where we stayed up talking well after Anna's bedtime. I didn't collapse into bed until 1 AM.

Which brings me to this morning. Never have I hated 8 AM conference calls more.

Bella clicks at the slides and continues her presentation. "We then analyzed the data using Atlas software version 10.1 and identified the following key themes…" Her low, assured voice resonates in the large space while her stare bounces between me and the conference phone on the large table. Luck is on my side today-we're the only two project members who attended in person, while the rest of the team dialed in.

For the first time this week, Bella and I are alone.

She pivots, the shift suddenly drawing attention to her backside. Like any conscious, straight male, I perk up (so to speak). She's wearing a red dress that dips above her chest and ends at her knees, modest and professional by all means. Though the way it clings to her figure makes me wonder if she's wearing anything underneath. I take a moment to imagine the possibilities if she weren't.

As if on cue, her gaze lingers on mine for a beat before narrowing with suspicion.

I school my features into an innocent expression and sit forward, folding my hands on the table.

"That's it. We seem to be on track to submit the final report to the DOH next month. Are there any questions?" She asks, all energy and politeness, her fingers drumming the table insistently. Silence reigns on the conference line.

Her eyes close briefly while her shoulders relax. "Thank you for your time. The meeting minutes will be circulated later today. If there are any questions, feel free to reach out to Edward or me." She bends over to drop the call, dark hair skimming her shoulders. The color reminds me of the varnished rosewood table in my parent's dining room, one of the oldest antiques in the house. It matched her dress at the after party, and I can still recall how the velvet felt crushed under my palms.

Bella straightens and turns towards me, smoothing the imperceptible wrinkles in her (not as exciting) dress. "Well, that was interesting. I guess we'll have to re-evaluate staff needs given the extended timeline."

Work. Client call. Analysis plan. Wait- "We were given an extension?" I ask, trying to remember if that was covered.

Satisfaction flashes across her features. She crosses her arms and shifts to lean on her left side. "Nope."

Well played. A scoff escapes me. "You could have just called me out."

"I could have." Her lips flatten while she scans me. "Dare I ask why you look like you pulled an all-nighter?"

I can't tell if she's concerned about my well-being or the answer to her question. At this point, if I told her I was at a coke-fueled orgy with Wall Street stockbrokers, she'd probably believe me.

I keep my tone nonchalant. "Nothing eventful. I stayed up later than I anticipated last night, and the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet." The effects of my espresso have only just started to trickle into my bloodstream, so I'm not about to mention Alice and Anna.

The corners of her lips dart upward before flattening, the movement as quick as a glitch on a screen. "Fair enough. I'm glad the meeting went smoothly-which it did, by the way-it means we can start writing the final report and putting the recommendations together."

Triumph flickers in her eyes. "It's really satisfying that the program has shown to be effective in reducing negative sexual behaviors."

A genuine congratulatory smile spreads across my face. The feedback we received from the students was mostly positive, but it was gratifying to have data that supported the program's performance. "It's certainly a good start. We just need to make sure this is tailored to different settings and demographics when we expand pilot testing."

She nods, sharply tugging her bottom lip with her teeth. "I'm glad I was involved with the focus groups. Thanks for coming with me."

Instead of accepting her undoubtedly professional gratitude, I sprawl lazily against the black leather chair. "Of course. I'm glad I was able to help, in as many ways as I could."

My gaze roams over her unabashedly as a spark of heat strikes at the base of my spine. Proposing we date is one of the best decisions I've made since we met; I don't have to pretend to be strictly co-workers and ignore the attraction between us. Any lingering guilt over inappropriate fantasies has been replaced by promises to explore each tempting possibility, against every surface, repeatedly.

It's possible I'm getting ahead of myself.

Her stare hardens, those crimson lips squeezing together tightly. "Don't," she warns, traces of caution underlining her threat.

The familiar urge to push her sharpens my response. "Don't what?" I ask, my eyes snapping to hers.

She props her hip against the chair at the head of the conference room table. "Stop looking at me like you want to duck into one of the executive's bathrooms."

I grin suggestively, making sure to flash the dimple. "They're just as, if not more comfortable than the one we shared."

"It's not going to happen," she reiterates, sniffing delicately and gathering the notes in front of her. My gaze travels down the graceful slope of her neck. Despite her words, I can see the familiar blush stain her cheeks.

I'm starting to suspect that her automatic dismissals and cool retorts are less related to interest and more likely used to regain control. It's obvious we're attracted to each other, but for some reason, she's been fighting this more than I have. Despite her acquiescence, she remarked that this wouldn't end well at the party, and I remember the wave of frustration that thrummed through my nerves as I moved her towards the bathroom. I set out to prove her wrong, but I don't think either of us were prepared for what happened next.

We consumed each other, the frenzied motions leaving marks that I can still feel on the back of my neck, only to be left hungrier than before. For the first time, we weren't exploring hypotheticals or pushing each other to see who would break first. It was mutually understood that we wanted to fucking gorge ourselves, to choke on need at the price of control. Our willingness to ignore the superficial reasons, fueled by ego or otherwise, reaffirmed that this is worth it.

What's the point of fighting to be on top when there's a more satisfying alternative?

"Careful, Bella," I lower my voice. "You don't want that to sound like a challenge." _Do it. I dare you._

Determination settles on her features as she crosses her arms, gripping tightly. "I'm not afraid of you, Masen." _Challenge accepted._

I bow my head and zero in on her eyes, the previous transparency of the tawny irises darkening to a deep shade of oak.

My fingers reach to button my suit jacket as I rise slowly, pleased at the way her gaze automatically directs to my front. Satisfaction guides my every step as I smoothly move towards her.

"When we were in Chicago, I admit, I enjoyed pushing you. It was strangely satisfying and frustrating, because we both knew when to stop."

I stand across from her, taking advantage of our difference in height. She's only a few inches shorter in her ever present heels, but it's clear one of us is bigger, though not necessarily stronger. I wait for my words to take their effect and enjoy the temporary silence that is the most telling breed of uncomfortable.

I wait for her breaths to become shallow and her pupils to widen with anticipation.

Perfect.

"There's no line anymore, Bella," I murmur softly. "I can tell you what I want, when I want, and how hard I want it. So I'm not going to apologize or censor myself when we're alone, because I deserve every opportunity to watch that fucking blush spread across your skin."

You shouldn't be afraid. You should be terrified.

She blinks owlishly, her cheeks flushed to match the color of her dress. Her soft, full lips relax and part, independent of any resistance. And yet, uncertainty flashes across her face just like in previous encounters. She recovers quickly and resets, but the mental reshuffling becomes more obvious each time I'm able to get close. I don't think she's actually afraid of me, but it's clear something's holding her back.

As much as I don't want to, I know I need to ask if that something is Jasper Hale.

Eventually. She drapes her arm around the chair in front of her, where her fingers gently scratch the leather. "I'm not sleeping with you on the first date," She affirms, tucking a loose strand behind her ear and tugging lightly at the lobe. Her voice is convincing, with barely a tremor. Despite our difference in height, she's barely tilted her head up, as if she doesn't want to give me the satisfaction.

I take a half step back, having proved my point. "You're a grown woman. You can do whatever you want." I shoot her a roguish grin, lightening the mood. "Although I won't judge you if you bring an overnight bag on the second date." _We're done._

Her shoulders relax minutely. "Patience is a virtue. Arrogance is not." _For now._

"I'm afraid that's my one deficiency," I respond humbly, checking the clock on the wall. Shit. Another client meeting in five minutes. "For tomorrow, make sure you wear comfortable shoes."

Alarm splashes across her face. "Are we going to be outside? You realize it's December, right?" The slight panic in her voice makes me wonder how she survived college in Boston, something Carl mentioned proudly considering his alma mater had been in the same area.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "It's indoors," I clarify. "But there'll be some physical activity involved. Especially in tight quarters." One of my dad's friends once diagnosed me with "NJD" or "Natural Jackass Disorder', which means I'm compelled to make a smartass comment every ten minutes or so.

The man has a medical degree, so I've never doubted that it must be true.

She shoots me an unamused look. "Edward-"

"Relax, Bella," I interject. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to." Although we both know that's not me.

A soft laugh tumbles out of her chest. "Why does that still sound like a threat?" She asks wryly. Her posture is much more relaxed than a few minutes ago, and I decide to have a bit of fun with her.

"I'm a privileged white male. Everything we say has to sound threatening or our fragile egos will break," I deadpan, like this is a common fact.

A burst of laughter erupts this time, her shoulders jerking. "Of course," she nods, recovering. "Let me know if you need to punch a wall or anything. You know, because of all that extra testosterone."

Bella flicks her hair behind her shoulder, and my right hand twitches. What I wouldn't give to wrap my fist around the soft strands, tugging lightly to see if her dark eyes would flare with lust or shock.

"By that definition, you have more testosterone than I do," I reply dryly.

"If you say so," she answers brightly. "Don't tell me that intimidates you?" She bats her lashes sarcastically, one arm cocked on her hip.

I sigh heavily and raise my eyes skyward. "It's certainly problematic. But if you want to redeem yourself in other areas, I could be persuaded to change my mind." The hopeful tone is exaggerated more for her benefit than mine.

She places her hand on her chest like a debutante at a ball. "How generous. Is this when I list all of _your_ amazing qualities that have ruined other men for me?" Her bullshit sweet tone and docile expression only needle me as I picture her whispering dirty confessions like this, draped across my bed.

"Sure," I reply good-naturedly. "Make sure you include the words 'big' and 'impressive.' "

She opens her mouth, but an alarm on my phone alerts me to my imminent meeting. I reach down to shut the sound off as she gathers her papers to her chest.

"I'll see you tomorrow night," she notes warmly, her face brightening with the faintest excitement.

"Seven PM," I remind her, a bit roughly.

Bella nods and makes her way to the door while I think of sports statistics and Donald Trump. I don't doubt that she wants this as much as I do, but I need to slow down before I push too hard and she decides to walk away. Or more likely, before I combust.

"By the way, as far as overnight bags go-" I look up to see her pause at the door, leaning on the handle.

She cocks an eyebrow and her lips draw up into a teasing smirk. "You should know I sleep completely naked." A small chuckle punctuates this reveal before she leaves, her heels clicking across the floor.

Tomorrow night cannot come soon enough.

* * *

"You're fifteen minutes late," I observe flatly, watching her collect her purse from the taxi.

Bella runs her fingers through her hair shakily, gathering her things. Her eyebrows knit together. "I know, and I'm genuinely sorry. This was my fault-I'll plan ahead next time." Though her words are sincere, it sounds a bit rehearsed. I recall Carl telling me that unless it was a professional function, Bella was almost never on time.

The corners of my lips tug downward. "You've lived in this city for years, so you had the opportunity to plan ahead. I moved here three months ago and I still showed up half an hour early to find parking." Nothing annoys me more than people who show up late, especially for dates. I've never waited for anyone this long, because if they didn't show up within the first ten minutes, then I'd usually leave.

Annoyance causes her to squint before she coolly replies, "Congratulations. You're officially a better planner than I am." She shoots me an exasperated look. "I've apologized, Edward. What do you want to do-punish me?"

The anger pumping through my veins metastasizes to an oily satisfaction towards the image of bending her over my knee. It's not original, but it's effective. "You need only ask, Bella," I respond darkly, enjoying the way embarrassment flushes her face.

"Not even if we found a time machine and flew back fifty years," she retorts, avoiding my eyes, not sounding as disinterested as she probably hoped to be.

We walk inside a nondescript brick building in the middle of Chinatown, caught between an ironic coffee shop and a CVS. The interior is almost blindingly white, the clinical surface reminiscent of a hospital, and I walk past a winding staircase to a red door with an intercom attached.

"Masen, party of two. We have a reservation for 7." Even though it's 7:16 now.

There's some brief crackling until a lengthy buzz springs the door open. I pull it back and gesture for Bella to enter, which she does with a suspicious and confused expression. We reach what looks like a waiting room-complete with a couch next to a table of magazines and a water cooler in the corner. A blonde man in his early twenties approaches us with a friendly grin.

"Hey, are you Edward and Isabella?" He asks curiously, a trained smile on his face.

"Bella," she automatically corrects, fixing a polite smile on her face.

He nods and waves us towards the hallway behind him. "Nice to meet you both, I'm Bryan. You're a bit late so the group has already started, but I'll go over the rules quickly." We pause in front of a black door with a number 3 stapled in the middle, and I can't help but feel smug at Bella's bewildered stare.

Bryan turns to us, slightly more energetic with his hand gestures. "Basically, you'll be locked in with five other people to find the key that guarantees your freedom. You have an hour; anything in the room could be a clue and you'll need to work together and solve puzzles to figure them out. The clues are usually placed in easy to reach places, so you probably don't need to reach into every corner. They're also pretty fragile, so please be careful and try not to damage anything. If we see that your group is stuck on something, we'll give you a hint on the TV but only after you've made an effort to think things through. Finally, please don't use your phone to take any pictures or videos-we want to keep things secret and guarantee a unique experience for others."

He pushes opens the door, the faint chatter of the room spilling out. "Good luck."

The room has been staged to resemble an old library. Two walls are lined with books while a large grandfather clock sits in the middle, the large pendulum swinging resolutely. An ornately carved desk faces the back wall, with a feather pen/ink set on top, adjacent to a simple silver lamp that creates a glow similar to a raging campfire.

Bella claps her hands excitedly and turns towards me with the biggest grin I've seen yet. "Escape Room! I haven't done this in years. Not a typical first date, Masen. I'm impressed."

Her genuine excitement-with a hint of bloodlust as she stares at the other teammates-makes me chuckle. "One of my friends recommended it a few months ago, but I never checked it out," I explained, shrugging out of my coat. "I figured this was appropriate given how good we are at playing games."

She hangs her jacket on the wall and quirks an eyebrow. "Is this your way of telling me you'll win?"

I follow suit and smugly observe the way her eyes unfocus temporarily when I stretch, the cashmere expanding over the planes of my chest. "This is my way of telling you we have to work together to get out. So we both either win or lose."

I scrutinize Bella, noting the crease between her brows and rhythmic tapping against her side. "Are you ready?"

Her gaze slides to mine confidently. "Always."

* * *

"I can't believe we lost."

Bella climbs into the taxi after me, her legs colliding against mine. She hurriedly reaches up to free the hair trapped under her coat. "We figured out the combination but ran out of time to enter it. That basically means we won."

I close the door behind us and shake my head stubbornly. "We didn't enter the combination because we ran out of time, which is the key element of the game. That makes us the losers." We had gotten to the last step of finding the safe but figured out too late that the password was hidden in the WiFi.

She crosses her legs and twists to face me. "Speak for yourself," she replies nonchalantly. "I choose to believe we won but time wasn't on our side. Revisionist history, perhaps." Her lips spread into a cheeky smile and her gaze glints with undisguised humor.

I sit back and focus on her, speculating. "You were the child who believed in Santa Claus for far too long, weren't you?"

"Embarrassingly so," she admits half-heartedly. "I was still leaving out milk and cookies when I was in middle school. I never noticed the crumbs on my dad's shirt the next morning or the fake beard that was barely hidden behind the laundry basket." Her deep chuckles reverberate through the confined space of the car as she looks down.

I smile, recalling a similar memory of my own. "Shockingly, Carl loved to dress up as Santa. When I figured it out and accused him of impersonating a sacred figure, my mom had to step in and tell me the truth. I don't think I've ever seen him that devastated-you'd think he was the one who had been told Santa Claus isn't real," I muse, scratching my jaw.

Bella laughs, teeth flashing and shoulders shaking. I've been on the receiving end of her forced smiles and reluctant chuckles, but the best reaction is when her face completely relaxes as she tilts her head back, those deep, throaty echoes escaping from her chest. After where we started and the lust-fueled moments that followed-being able to genuinely laugh and joke with her feels like a hard earned reward.

The taxi smoothly stops near the sidewalk along the Mall. Bella peers out the window with confusion. "We're getting out here?" She asks, her hand gathering her hair to rest on her left shoulder. "The museums are all closed now."

I swipe my credit card and open the door. "That depends on who's asking." It's possible I sound a bit more smug than I expected to.

Her face scrunches with curiosity, but she climbs out of the car after me, thanking the driver. She takes in the massive, darkened building in front of us and glances at me nervously. "I don't have a lot of money," she starts solemnly. "What I do have are a very particular set of skills-"

Smartass. "Very nice," I commend dryly. "It's reassuring I'm coming off as a kidnapper/terrorist. It's my usual benchmark of success for a first date."

"You're somewhere between creepy volleyball coach and unsettling neighbor next door," she observes, shivering. "The night's still young, though."

"Well, I've always been an overachiever," I reply, stopping in front of the Museum of Natural History. I had a couple of ideas for dinner after Escape Room, but settled on this location after I'd idly noted during my time here last weekend that it would be a romantic venue if there wasn't anyone around. Luckily, I went to graduate school with the son of the acting Chief of Staff at the Smithsonian, so it wasn't difficult to arrange a private event.

Granted, I also had to ask Carl to increase his donation to the Smithsonian this year, which he happily agreed to do before launching into a lecture on the importance of conservation and his review of _Planet Earth._

A few minutes later, a portly man dressed in the standard security guard uniform-pressed white shirt and black slacks-appears. Despite his being out of shape, there's an obvious awareness in his stony gaze as he flatly assesses us the way a lion does when it discovers intruders.

His mustache twitches. "Edward Cullen, right? Can I see some ID please?"

I hand him my driver's license and wait for his confirmation. After inspecting it for a few seconds, the guard nods before returning it to me. He opens the door wider and gestures us to come inside, the blast of warm air causing Bella and me to exhale gratefully, shivering from the sudden contrast in temperatures.

The guard breaks his tough guy routine with a smile that reaches his eyes. "How ya guys doin' tonight? I'm Ray, and I'm part of the security team here." His New Jersey accent is as upfront as his sudden enthusiasm, and we follow him down the hallway and into the main rotunda. Our attention temporarily directs towards the giant creatures, the elephant and dinosaur exhibits commanding the space.

"We're doing pretty well, Ray." I reply politely, shaking his hand. "Thanks for staying with us and working tonight. I hope it wasn't too inconvenient." Unsure of the museum's overtime policies, I'd made sure that the security guard who ended up volunteering for tonight would be paid generously for his time. I also made sure this was only on a volunteer basis.

Ray grins toothily, shrugging. "Nah, it's no big deal. I get paid more than my regular shift and have to deal with less people. Just don't start any trouble," he teases.

"I'll try not to," I promise, glancing over at Bella. "I can't make any promises for her."

She smacks my arm, shooting me a sarcastic look. "It's nice to meet you Ray. I'm Bella. Are you armed by any chance?" She asks sweetly, shifting her eyes to me once, twice, three times so he'll understand the implication. Subtle.

We pour into a tiny elevator in the corner of the rotunda, which automatically starts to rise. Ray chortles, turning towards us. "You two celebrating your anniversary? Let me guess-five years?"

Bella's eyes widen and she opens her mouth to correct him, but I interrupt her. "Ten, actually. College sweethearts. We met on the first day of a psychology class, when she accused me of being a narcissistic, sexist jerk."

Cautious amusement dances in her eyes. "Then he told me I was a know-it-all, overbearing feminazi."

Ding! The doors open to Ray's staccato belly laughs. Bella and I lag behind, exchanging secretive smiles. Warmth unfurls in my stomach, similar to the first sip of an aged brandy or whiskey, the smokiness curling around your lungs. Her unguarded expression and mischievous smile are somehow comforting and nerve-wracking at the same time.

Finally, we stop in front of a candle lit table with two sets of plates and silverware, adjacent to the stone border that connects the four marbled columns, overlooking the entire first floor of the museum. The main lights have been dimmed, creating shadows that cause the figures below to look like giant monsters frozen in time.

Ray whistles and raises his eyebrows approvingly. "Here we are. I'll be doing my nightly patrols and monitoring everything in the security room. You should be all set, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen."

I lean over to shake his hand again, my eyes fixed on the brunette pressed up against the border, peering out below. "Thanks, Ray."

He nods before walking to the elevator, the echoes of his heavy boots growing fainter. I sit down and shrug out of my coat, reaching under the tablecloth to pull out the previously arranged picnic basket along with the bottle of Merlot.

"This is..." Bella trails off and I watch her fingers scratch the stone surface. Her shoulders relax as she turns around and leans against the border. "Thank you. I-I can't believe you planned this all out." Caution slightly dampens the wonder in her voice, as if she's afraid to ask what brought this all on but can't help being amazed by the view.

I manage to uncork the bottle and start pouring her a glass. "Why not?" I ask rhetorically. "I have three dates with you, so I plan to make them all count."

"Does this mean you've rented out other museums for a first date?" She asks teasingly, the flickers of amusement on her features mirroring the flames across from me.

"Of course," I nod, pushing the glass to her side of the table. "Reserve four museums and you get the fifth one for free. This was my fifth." I pour myself a glass and tip it towards her mockingly.

Her deep chuckles bounce around the marble walls as she walks over slowly to me and takes her coat off, revealing a tight green sweater that dips into her cleavage. Thank god I have another bottle of wine.

"What must it be like to be part of this world?" She muses aloud, making herself comfortable. "One where you can call someone at a moment's notice and reserve a museum for a night?"

I take a sip of the Merlot, relishing in the smooth and full taste. "Not as appealing as you might think," I answer thoughtfully.

She cocks her head, studying me. "Interesting. Do you think you feel this way because you can afford to?" Her chair scrapes against the floor as she shifts forward. There's no judgment in her tone, just a curious lilt.

"I'm sure my privileged upbringing created blind spots. That doesn't mean I'm incapable of understanding others in different situations."

Her eyes narrow shrewdly, as she gently swirls the crimson liquid around. "So it's never bothered you, growing up with money?"

I tilt my head and consider her question. "You mean, have I ever felt guilty over something that I had but didn't earn?"

Her eyebrows knit together, uncertain. "Sure," she relents slowly. "Or have you ever felt uncomfortable because of it?"

I take another slow sip. "Not really," I admit. "I spent years in a foster care home before I moved in with Carlisle and Esme. I knew those who weren't as fortunate as I was, and that awareness didn't disappear just because I later drove my own car or ate at nice restaurants." An amusing thought occurs to me. "Were you expecting me to confess that I carry that guilt around like a dark secret, and warn you to stay away?"

She ducks her head, clearly a bit embarrassed before setting her elbow on the table. Her fingers enclose around the stem of the glass. "You've never done anything I've expected, Edward. I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Good," I reply firmly. At least we're both of the same mindset. "Although if you want my deepest secrets, then you'll have to be slightly more persuasive." We're back in the conference room again, edging closer to each other but stopping short of touching.

A wicked smile curls across her face as shadows dance in her dark eyes, the bottomless pools drawing me in. "Noted," she answers huskily.

I remind myself that the bathrooms on this floor are at the end of the hallway. "What about you? What was your childhood like?"

She exhales sharply. "Uneventful. I'm sure Carl might have mentioned this, but I was born in Arizona before moving to a tiny town in Washington when I was seven years old. Dry summers replaced by wet winters. It was...fine. Just boring, that's all."

"Is that why you decided to go to college in Boston?"

"Partially," she explains, her finger circling the rim of her glass. "I spent a summer in Boston for a high school internship, and the city made a lasting impression. I loved the historic architecture, the cozy restaurants, and all of the innovation that goes on through start-ups and universities. Not to mention the Public Gardens. It was my go-to study place."

Interesting. "I used to spend a lot of my time there when I was in business school. And to think, we might have actually run into each other." I don't elaborate, choosing to shoot her a sly look instead.

"So, what was the real Bella Swan like in college?" I ask, picturing a spitfire brunette waving pamphlets on the school quad.

Bella purposefully takes a swig from her glass before answering. "You weren't too far off. I was extremely idealistic and easily influenced. My friends were all politically active, so I went through an activist phase." She tilts her head in a half-shrug, dark strands falling to her collarbone. "Streaked hair, cruelty-free makeup, free-trade coffee-the whole earthy, crunchy nine yards."

"You protesting authority? I would never have guessed," I reply wryly.

"Ugh, I was obnoxious. I believed that you had to be the loudest person in the room in order to be heard." She shook her head. "Needless to say, I wasn't a hard partier. The parties I attended had cheap wine that was passed off as classy and European, while wannabe philosophers and future politicians/white collar criminals practiced their elevator speeches."

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, even as a small smile appears. "But I'm glad I got to slowly come out of my shell with my weird group of friends. We like to look back and laugh at how pretentious we were back then."

"Do you still keep in touch with them?"

"Not really," she admits reluctantly. "We were friends because we had similar interests and went to the same school. We all wanted to figure out who we were, and confided in each other because of that. But then we grew up, and now we're all different people with different lives."

The glowing flames reflect off of the empty glass, illuminating the regret that weighs down her features. "That was a hard lesson to learn when I first moved here. It becomes more difficult to make friends after college, and much easier to lose them."

A bitter smile forces its way onto her face. "It's no one's fault-everyone becomes busy. But I've always felt it's important to keep those you care for close to you."

I memorize her reaction, wondering if there was something else underneath her words. "What if you change over the course of your friendship? Wouldn't it be more prudent to let some people go?"

She looks away, choosing to stare at her fork instead. "I think if you've been through enough with this person, it might be harder than you think," she replies, a slightly troubled expression on her face.

Her eyebrows rise as she blinks rapidly. Reset. "So, what was the infamous Edward Cullen like in college? President of a frat? Notorious conqueror of quivering freshwomen?"

"Your high opinion of me continues," I respond wryly, leaving the heavy notes of the previous conversation behind. "Shockingly, I was a fairly normal college student. Yes, I attended my fair share of frat parties and exotic vacations, but I worked hard to get into the graduate program of my choice. I was serious where I needed to be."

Never mind that I actually had been president of my fraternity.

She shoots me a knowing gaze. "So the answer is yes to both," she answers, raising her glass in mock respect, repeating my earlier "toast".

"I dated my fair share," I confess unapologetically, leaning back. "But nothing was really serious, and it's been too long to remember any details." My eyes widen innocently. "I was young and impressionable. I didn't know any better."

She tilts her head back and laughs. "That's not how Carl and Esme describe your...adventures," she teases. "You may have blocked out those details, but they have been more than happy to provide recaps."

A groan erupts from my chest. "It's almost disturbing how close you are with them," I accuse half-heartedly. She simply crosses her legs and waits for me to continue.

"I enjoyed my time in college, but it also convinced me to leave my world," I confess, idly rubbing the handle of the fork next to me. "It only looks beautiful because it's not real, and I would rather process the ugliness of reality than live in a world that everyone pretends is perfect." Even then, it's tempting to live inside this bubble, unaware of how much damage you can cause until it's too late for apologies to matter.

She cocks her head at me, an inquisitive expression on her face. "You continue to surprise me, Edward. In ways I don't expect either."

"You surprised me the day we met," I reply honestly. "It's only fair we're somewhat even now."

A comfortable lull establishes itself once again as we stare at each other across the table. Maybe I shouldn't be shocked at how much I'm enjoying myself, but it occurs to me that underneath the obvious physical attraction-I actually like this girl. She's got a wicked sense of humor and a retort prepared for any scenario, with-

The thunderous groan from her stomach breaks the silence, and I burst out laughing at the inconvenient yet perfect interruption.

"Highlight of the night so far," I joke, chuckling.

Bella bows, embarrassment coating her face. "Let's just move past that," she mutters. "Clearly, I'm ready to eat. Impress me with your culinary talents." She snickers at her clever pun, while I shoot her a pained expression.

"Only the best Italian from Floriana, I'm afraid." I reach to unpack the restaurant containers filled with pasta, bread, and aromatic sauces and scoop generous helpings of each on our plates.

"Please don't tell me you picked Italian because of my name," she points out automatically. Her eyes widen and she clasps her hand over her mouth like a scandalized housewife. "Sorry, that was pretty ungrateful. Maybe even bitchy. This looks great."

So there is a filter. A faulty one, but it exists. "Don't be," I reply nonchalantly. "I picked Italian because I wanted Italian, and I've seen the takeout bags from Olive G-er, an authentic Italian restaurant on your desk-to know you prefer it too."

She opens her mouth to retort before her eyes squint in deliberation. It closes with a snap. "Fair enough."

I politely wait for her to take the first bite as she scoops up a bit of the shrimp antipasto. The wince hits her just as she swallows. "Oh, I hate to break it to you, Chef Boyardee-but this is ice cold." She shoots me a pitying look.

What the hell? I quickly repeat her actions before muttering, "Perfect." The food was undoubtedly delicious, but like she said-practically frozen. My fork clatters on the plate. "Do you think there's a microwave nearby?" I ask sardonically.

"I think we'll be immediately kicked out if we ask. Oh my god-" she abruptly stops, interrupted by hysterical giggles. "You rented out a museum for a date, prepared this romantic candlelit dinner, only to find out the food is freezing. Please tell me you see how hilariously upsetting this is."

I sit back and rake a hand through my hair, hopelessly amused by her reaction and the dilemma literally in front of us. "At least we have wine. The bread's still salvageable." I shake my head. "If you want to go some-"

"Not a chance," she interrupts, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "We are going to make this work and enjoy everything else here. A cold meal is the last thing that should stand in our way of having a good time."

Although I hate to admit it-she was right. We spent the next hour discussing all the typical topics of a first date: favorite bars, favorite spots in the city, hobbies, etc. We both prefer authentic, low-key bars though she can't stomach any hard liquor. She identified the Korean War Memorial as her favorite historical attraction, and I somewhat guiltily confessed that I admired the Lincoln Memorial, even if it is a tourist trap. I kept in shape by swimming at the company pool and hiking outside the city, while she-believe it or not-took kickboxing classes.

My reaction to her hobby: "Is that why-"

"Yes. Oh, yes." It's lucky she wears smugness quite well, even when it was practically emanating from her pores.

Given our volatile nature, there were plenty of arguments, ranging from heavily political to utterly ridiculous-at one point, I defended the business savvy of the Kardashians while she maintained that they had little redeeming value.

This is what happens when you have plenty of wine soaked up by a few pieces of bread.

I'm wrapping up my story of a bachelor party that puts _The Hangover_ to shame, when she places her hands in her lap.

"So," she starts slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "How do you know Alice Brandon?"

The last of the wine is in my glass, so I decide to ration it and make it last as long as possible.

I move forward and place my elbows on the table, locking eyes with her across the waning candlelight. "I met Alice a few months after I had moved in with Carlisle and Esme, when we were both fourteen. She and I both had similar pasts-we had been too young to remember our parents but old enough to know that it had been...difficult."

I pause, recalling the first time I met the practically mute, dark-haired girl with the big blue eyes who lived a few houses down from mine. Other kids in our neighborhood had dismissed both of us as weird and unimportant, so we both confided in each other and vowed to become life-long friends. For four years, we spent almost every day together-helping each other with homework, complaining about the awkwardness of middle school dances, retelling the stories of our firsts, and perhaps most importantly-accepting that we might be weird, but not unimportant. Never unimportant.

That's why the next part was painful to reveal. "Predictably we became close, almost like siblings. But as you mentioned before, people become busy. Alice and I weren't an exception. After we both left for college, I rarely saw her. She was either in another city for an internship or with Ha-Jasper, and I was similarly occupied. We would call each other once every few months to catch up, but over time, we lost touch."

The familiar guilt resurfaces even if it's misplaced. "I didn't find out that she broke up with Jasper until she mentioned to me that had started dating someone else," I continue, my jaw clenched. "By then, we hadn't talked in years. Shortly after, I moved to New York for ABS and didn't hear from her...until she called me on the night before Jasper left."

That had been one of the worst moments of my life. The raw hysteria and pain from Alice's voice over the phone locked my muscles and turned my insides cold. After calming her down and waiting for the sobs to subside, she told me the entire story. I immediately offered her the option to stay with me. Well, offered is a generous interpretation. I booked the ticket while on the phone and told her she had 10 hours to pack her things. It was only when I saw her for the first time in years, relief practically knocking me over, that I realized how much I truly missed her.

If I had been there, would everything have gotten so complicated?

Bella's expression remains neutral, showing no surprise. She's taking this too well. Or...the uncertainty in my stomach hardens to a cynical realization that Hale already told her these details last weekend.

"After he left, Alice stayed with me in New York. I was there when she had her daughter, Anna, and helped look after her for the first few months." I suddenly laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Nothing instills more patience than waking up at three in the morning to change a diaper."

Bella smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. I can't say I blame her-and I haven't even heard about her relationship with Hale yet.

I clear my throat and continue. "I tried to stay in the city after I left ABS, but the only company I could trust was my father's. By then, Alice had found a temporary position at a law firm in New York and didn't want to uproot her life again." I don't mention the other legalities involved. "So I moved here. Six months later, her position ended and the firm couldn't offer her anything permanent, so I convinced her to move back to D.C. with Anna. We've kept in touch regularly since then."

Bella nods slowly, her eyes bouncing back and forth to process everything. It's clear she wants to ask questions, but the details I withheld are personal to Alice, which means it's not my place to share them.

"Wow," she finally says, sitting back and slumping against the chair. "This is...a lot." She runs her hand through her hair, exhaling deeply. The crease between her eyebrows deepens with concern as she frowns, and I wonder if I have the same expression on my face.

Finally, she looks up at me with something resembling gratitude, the corner of her lips slowly turning upward. "Thank you for sharing that with me. I can't imagine how difficult it's been for you and Alice, but...it sounds like you're both lucky to have each other."

"We are," I admit cautiously, detecting the hint of resignation in her tone. "But you should know- we've never been more than friends. She and I don't have that kind of relationship."

"Hmmm," she murmurs. "He-Jasper mentioned that last week to me."

Perfect segueway. "Right. What is your relationship to Jasper Hale?" Disdain coats my voice but I don't bother to conceal my dislike.

Bella's eyebrows knit together as she folds her arms and leans forward, mirroring my stance. "I met Jasper when I first moved to D.C. six years ago. We dated for a few months until we decided to be friends instead, but we were never exactly platonic. Our friendship transitioned into a casual relationship, or what I called a whatevership." She rolls her eyes.

"Eventually, I realized I still had feelings for him, and decided to tell him how I felt the night before he left. And that's when-that's when he told me Alice had been living with him for the past few weeks and he was still in love with her." Her gaze meets mine, slightly apologetic. "I only recently found out about Anna."

Jesus Christ. I make a show of grabbing the empty wine bottle and tipping it towards my glass, as Bella makes a sound of assent. "As far as complicated relationships go, I think we might be up there with Romeo and Juliet," she acknowledges.

With one glaring exception. "So Jasper is the person who hurt you?" I ask, alluding to her confession during our first "dinner" in Georgetown of why she chose to kick me.

She exhales shakily, her head jerking downward. "It's complicated. Well, maybe not. Jasper was the first person I had feelings for; my expectations had been unrealistic and based off of fairy tales. We clearly weren't compatible, but I chose to try and make it work."

Her lips tighten into a thin line. "He didn't care enough and I cared too much. I think we both made mistakes, and we regret how things unfolded."

I blink at her. "And now?"

"Now...I guess I'm trying to see if we can actually be friends this time," she continues, more subdued than before. "Those feelings I had or thought I had-they don't exist anymore. And to be honest, Jasper and I have always understood each other in a way that I've found difficult to replicate in other friendships. He was there...for moments I don't care to revisit, and cutting him out feels like I'd be dismissing all of that history."

I watch her silently stare at a spot on the tablecloth, lost in thought. The same blank expression returns, except this time there's a stab of determination. Her left fist clenches, creating small wrinkles in the fabric.

I can't proclaim to be an expert in understanding her, but I know she believes this wholeheartedly. Perhaps that's the problem. After Alice told me about Jasper, I had Caine run a standard background check. In some ways, it was like holding up a mirror-we both came from wealthy families, attended private schools, drove expensive cars and dated beautiful women.

Thankfully, that was where the similarities ended.

I know men like Jasper Hale. Men who proclaim they're emotionally unavailable yet choose to have serious relationships in order to use others for validation. Men who choose to stay silent and feign ignorance even though they know the relationship will never last or move forward. Men who aren't stupid or obtuse by nature, but pretend to be because they know they can get away with it.

Instead of pretending that this won't be an issue, I decide to take the offensive. "To be similarly honest, Bella, it doesn't sound like you've completely moved on from him." I cross my arms and straighten, steadily maintaining eye contact.

She bites her lip. "It doesn't sound like you and Alice are just friends if you're helping her raise a child."

"I never had feelings for Alice, and she certainly didn't break my heart. Trying to be friends with someone who did just that-it's not normal," I insist quietly, frustration leaking through my words.

"None of this is normal," Bella interjects, tilting her chin forward as the tablecloth starts to sag towards her crushing grip.

I exhale deeply and regroup. "I admit, my perspective of Jasper is colored by his time with Alice, but the fact is-he left her. He _left_ her while she was pregnant and alone, and I-" Hazy rage rattles through my nerves, so I take a deep breath, trying to quiet the rising anger.

My jaw clenches. "I think anyone who chooses to leave someone they claim to care for, doesn't deserve a second chance."

Her eyes widen and her muscles visibly relax, as if all of the building frustration has deflated from her shoulders. "Fair enough," she acknowledges. "But I can't judge you, Jasper, or Alice for handling a situation I was never a part of. I'm just asking that you do the same for me."

Our bodies slacken as we both sit back, momentarily stunned by the way the ground has parted under our feet, creating an impasse that seems impossible to cross.

Is this all pointless? She's tempting in many ways, but I won't waste my time chasing after her if she still has feelings for someone else. Especially someone as pointless as Jasper Hale. And how might this affect Alice?

"You know, it's ironic," she muses, breaking me from my thoughts. "All of the questions and doubts you probably have right now never left my head since your proposal. I've been obsessing, over analyzing the reasons we shouldn't do this-how we might be set up for failure already." The dark irises bore into mine imploringly. Her voice is a hoarse whisper, designed to draw me closer to the flame.

"I've even been hoping that you could take the initiative and prove me wrong, but that's not fair," she says, shaking her head. "It's not fair to assume that you know how to process this any better than I can. So I get how weird and coincidental it all is. I get that it's confusing and complicated. But I choose to make it simple, and this time, I choose not to walk away."

She leans forward and places her hand next to mine, barely touching. Sincerity bleeds through the apprehension in her tone, a tentative smile that lightly reaches her eyes.

My first crush was a tall blonde who loved Harry Potter almost as much as I did, and I spent weeks wondering if I should ask her out on a "date". I was thirteen. The older I became, the more crushes, hook-ups, and relationships I had with varying degrees of complication. There were new expectations, feelings, and needs. But sitting here, across from Bella at a candle-lit table in the Museum of Natural History?

For a second, I'm that skinny, stuttering boy by the lockers, wondering if the prettiest girl in my grade will say yes.

Giving into the urge, I reach for her hand next to the flicker of the candlelight. For a few seconds, I don't say anything-just staring at the delicate pale skin of her fingers brushing lightly against my larger, thicker ones. I turn over her words in my mind, the resulting warmth sinking in like the warmth from her palm.

"Are you ready?" She asks, repeating my words from earlier in the night.

I raise my head to squint at her, seeing apprehension, uncertainty, and cautious hope.

"Always."

* * *

"The user is currently unavailable to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone."

"Masen, it's Caine. One of my informants on the Hill just told me they're opening an investigation into ABS. You need to call me back."


	18. The Second Date

**Hello! Long time no see. Long time no update, specifically. I'd love to provide a detailed recap of my activities/excuses, but I think I've made you wait long enough :) As always, a huge bouquet of roses and lilies (my personal fave) to my beta, JulieToo! Bravely sifting through my drafts and polishing them up like an old, patched up shoe. Huge thanks!**

 **On with the show!**

BPOV

 **Four years ago**

" _I hate that she's making me play the dutiful son again. For the third time."_

 _I frowned, juggling the phone between my ear and my shoulder. "Does she know that?"_

 _Jasper exhaled, and I pictured him staring forlornly out the window of his high-rise. "It's her wedding day," he drawled, sarcasm pointed and ready to aim. "Lord knows the last thing she's thinking about is me. Or her boytoy husband, to be honest."_

 _I rolled my eyes and turned down the flames of the stove. "He's thirty one, not eighteen. Plus, you don't get to choose who you fall for." Case in fucking point. "And she's your mother."_

" _I guess," he muttered. "Technically I never saw the results of the DNA test I ran that one time…"_

" _Please. if you grew up in a normal family, then you'd have nothing to brood over." I stirred the spaghetti noodles in the pot, pleased that they appeared fully cooked. "You'd be bored out of your mind."_

 _He laughed, the low sound earning a lip bite and a pathetically pleased expression from me. "We never stop trying to impress our parents, do we?" I imagined him tilting his head, probably staring at a glass of Southern Comfort whiskey. "Why do you suppose that is?"_

 _This question may have seemed rhetorical, but I was hell bent on providing the perfect answer. "It's hard to see our parents as real people, but it's even harder to see ourselves as anything other than their kids sometimes," I mused. "That's why it's healthy to maintain some distance, but they're still our family. They want the best for us, and we want to prove to them that we've achieved it."_

 _It was the same advice I'd repeated to myself whenever my mother had screamed and threatened and cried while my father had struggled to control his anger. Thank god for CD players and noise-canceling headphones._

" _I hate it when you're right," he grumbled, the clinking of ice cubes in the background._

 _Since we'd decided to be "friends", I thought about telling Jasper how dysfunctional my family was, but that was the last piece of me to give. If I handed this to him as easily as I'd pointed out my other vulnerabilities, then there would be nothing left._

 _Beep, beep beeeeep! I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts. The microwave door popped open, and I grabbed the scalding bowl of meatballs from the microwave, wincing a bit at my misled eagerness._

" _Anyway, what are you doing tonight? Want to come over?" He asked nonchalantly, already having moved on from my previous response._

 _My hands stilled. Say no, Bella. Just say no. He's not a drug except he's exactly like a drug. You know better. You know what will happen. NO. NO. N-_

" _Sure," I answered breezily, quickly shoving the pot of spaghetti and plate of meatballs into the fridge. "I'm starving though, so you're going to have to grab dinner."_

" _Deal," he agreed. "I could go for some Chinese or Thai. Is that ok?"_

 _No, none of this was ok. "Perfect," I said cheerily. "See you in a bit."_

* * *

" _Hey, sorry I'm late," I mustered, combing through my mussed hair haphazardly and dropping my purse behind me. "The green line was insanely packed today."_

 _Rose's eyes widened as she blinked in confusion. "Green line? Why would you be taking-" She snapped her mouth closed, the realization of where I was causing her lips to tighten with disapproval. "You were coming from his place."_

 _I shrugged, propping the menu up between us to avoid the heat of her judging stare. "He invited me over last night. I stayed later than I expected, so I slept over instead." Shame twisted around my insides and squeezed like a boa constrictor ensnaring its prey, but I pasted on a billboard smile to distract her._

 _She bit her lip and looked down. "Ok. I won't say anything."_

 _I placed my elbow on the table, exasperation tugging at my limbs. "It's just casual. I know it doesn't mean anything." Deny, deny, deny._

" _Sure it is," she replied, her eyes scanning the menu blankly. "For now. And then, in a few days or weeks, you'll call me crying and overanalyzing every moment since this one."_

" _Rose-"_

 _She shook her head, agitation bouncing in her eyes even as her voice rang with resignation. "No, I get it. I understand what I'm supposed to do here and what's going to happen. So I won't tell you not to see him. I won't warn you to break it off now before he breaks your heart again. I won't be that friend who tries to convince you that he just doesn't care."_

 _Rose leaned in, her blonde hair falling in front of her shoulder. "I'll wait for you to tell me."_

 _Fuck. "Here's the thing-I know. I swear, I do," I pleaded, imploring her to understand. "But...he's the first person I've ever really had feelings for. Maybe this is the part of the story where I'm patient and understanding, so that he'll realize I'm worth it." God, I sound pathetic. Honest, but pathetic. "If there's even a chance that he wants me the way I want him, then I choose to stay."_

 _Did I believe that Jasper and I "belonged" together, tied by fate, that elusive and exclusive bitch? Partially. There's a thin line between romance and idiocy, but there's an even thinner one between romance and insecurity. The problem wasn't which side I stood on-it was the belief that I was only limited to these options. It was my desperate clinging to the idea that despite Jasper's flaws, we had been something and I still felt glimmers of that something whenever we were together. I was terrified-that I might not feel it with anyone else, and I didn't deserve to feel it with someone else._

 _Thanks, mom._

 _She continued to stare back at me, pity softening the edges of her eyes._

" _Nothing worth having comes easy, right?" I half-joked, making my final appeal, even as dread filled me like concrete._

 _Rose's eyes cooled into an emotionless cerulean. "Let's hope he thinks so."_

* * *

"Congratulations, Dr. Swan. We think the findings are highly promising and are eager to collaborate with you on this effort again."

I stop pacing and shut my eyes in relief, a deep breath inflating my chest. "Thank you very much. I've appreciated your assistance and responsiveness throughout this entire year, and look forward to working with you all for the next one."

FUCK yes. I punch at the air excitedly like a frat bro who just won a beer pong championship. Yes, those exist. And yes, you're allowed to start worrying for humanity now. Edward and I had presented the results of the BoyzIIMen program at a presentation last week with the client, the Department of Health and Human Services. The positive feedback from the focus groups, combined with data analysis that revealed the program was associated with increased condom use, had stunned those on the call. No one had expected a micro budgeted project to yield anything valuable. Well, no one except me.

"Guess whose sexual health project just got funded by the DHHS for another year?" I exclaim, swinging around in my chair. Overreaction? Not since the feds slashed the budget for sex ed last year. I'd been lucky to receive grant funding for this year, and it's miraculous that it's getting renewed.

"It's gotta be Beyoncé, right?" Rose deadpans, shuffling papers on her desk. "What can't she do?"

"N-well, yes." I correct myself, twirling a pen to work off the excess energy. "She's an amazing female role model who rules the world. But I get to expand testing and continue working on my program!" The pen flings out of my grasp as I laugh, the sound giddy with a hint of disbelief.

"Seriously, congrats," Rose says warmly. She'd listened to enough of my work-related rants to understand the trials and tribulations of getting government funding. "Persuading horny teens not to have sex-you're doing God's work."

"Have safe sex," I correct, smiling. "But thanks. It'll be my legacy. Maybe they'll play 'Let's Talk about Sex' at my funeral."

"Horrifying yet appropriate," she approves. "Has Edward said anything about your hard-won victory?"

"He's actually away at an executive retreat, so I haven't heard from him yet." Pride, both professional and personal, fills me. "Please tell me you're free for drinks tomorrow night?"

"I'll be heading to Emmett's brother's birthday party," she responds apologetically. "What about Friday? We can do a girls night and catch up over your second date. That's tonight, right?"

"Done," I confirm, the momentary high having gently tumbled down to a moderated contentment. "And yeah, we're meeting up at the gym after work."

After the Natural History Extravaganza of 2016 (understated I know), Edward suggested a low-key second date, like grabbing drinks after work. I mentioned that's when I usually (try to) attend kickboxing classes, although I could skip "every once in awhile", but he insisted on keeping my routine. That's how he invited himself to the Monday session, which starts in a few hours.

I accused him of being a masochist, and he just shrugged and sipped his coffee.

"So things are going well?" Rose asks curiously. "No psycho-exes? He doesn't secretly work on the hill, does he?" As you can see, my friends take me very seriously.

I snort. "Thankfully not. Actually, it's weird-we have the sexual tension of opposites attract but still genuinely...like each other? I've pulled some pretty stupid stunts-which, yes, I'm big enough to admit now-but we joke and banter and get along in a way that I didn't think we could."

I roll my eyes. "God, I sound like I'm in high school doodling his name in my journal."

"Mrs. Bella Cullen. It has a nice, pretentious ring to it," she teases.

"It sounds like a name of a vampire. Like Bela Lugosi."

"You read too many of those YA novels," she groans. "Anyway, I think you sound like anyone who had dinner at a privately rented out museum for your first date."

"Ooh, I think I like you jealous," I tease, stretching my arms and yawning.

"Two words, Swan: double date." She emphasizes the last two words like a done deal, rather than a suggestion.

"Let's see how the next two dates go." My fingers drum against the polished wood of my desk erratically. There's a comfortable pause, and I bite the inside of my cheek, debating whether I should ask my next question.

Fuck it. "Be honest," I start steadily, swiveling around to face my window. "Do you think I'm being delusional?" Despite my declaration at the end of the first date, a familiar trace of indecision crawls into my voice like a skittish mouse. Pretending to be fine has always been my defense mechanism, and I'm usually able to fool everyone, even myself. But Rose has always managed to call me out on my bullshit, so much so that now I just spill all the gory details to her. She'd seen me at my most vulnerable and most deluded, and the only silver lining is that she can now recognize the warning signs when I can't.

I imagine her pursed lips and sympathetic head tilt. "No, I don't." Rose's voice quiets to a reflective murmur. "You don't know when you officially begin with someone, but you do know when you both end. It wasn't delusional to fall for Jasper-it was trying to hold onto something that had already ended."

I nod, feeling like a bobblehead that can't stop shaking. "It's just-they both seem so similar on paper that I can't help but compare them to each other." Rich? Check. Single child? Check. Can wear the hell out of a suit? Check. Involved with the same woman? Differently, but check.

"Yeah, I get that. But that's not fair," she points out diplomatically. "Plus, have there been any actual red flags? The fact that they both shop at Armani doesn't count."

"I actually don't think Edward shops there," I muse. Probably somewhere less flashy, like Calvin Klein. "But no, I guess not. I even grilled him about his relationship with money since he's grown up with so much of it. He acknowledged that he's more privileged than other people but doesn't beat himself up about it."

"That's promising," she answers, understanding the hang-ups that Jasper had about his family's wealth, and whether his professional accomplishments were really based on his own merit.

"Does he brood and mope around? Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular," she adds dryly.

I can't help the snarky smile that spreads across my face. "No." It immediately straightens when I circle back to what he revealed last week. "But he's really close to Alice and her daughter."

Rose exhales deeply. "Right. Have you guys talked about that since last weekend?"

"Not really," I admit, fiddling with my necklace. "I don't think we know what to say yet." Or do it without arguing.

"Well, you both just started dating. This might be something to bring up after spending more time together. Or maybe you can ask a few basic questions to get a better idea of his relationship with them. Or maybe you should just follow his lead?"

The same barrage of questions have popped up in my head, but I chuckle helplessly at her word vomit anyway. "Aren't I supposed to be the one who overanalyzes everything?"

"After six years, it looks like you're finally rubbing off on me." She pauses. "I don't know what to tell you. I want to say that he's good for you, but I haven't met him yet either. Based on everything you've told me, it sounds like you should keep dating him."

The alarm for my next meeting annoyingly but effectively reminds me to get my ass to the conference room. "Thanks," I answer quietly, standing up and grabbing my notepad. It's somehow comforting that Rose seems undecided about how to tackle the Alice/Edward/Anna connection. "I have to run to a meeting, but I'll see you on Friday?"

"Sure. Oh, and I know you're not in a coffee shop this time, but please try not to get the cops called for your date tonight."

"It'll be fine," I assure her. "Emmett will be there, so nothing will get too out of control." 70% sure.

"Mm-hmm," she says, skepticism dripping from her voice. "I still can't believe Emmett gets to meet him before I do. How will I judge him and speculate on his-"

The alarm rings again, and I interrupt her. "Sorry, I really have to head to this meeting. I'll talk to you soon."

"Have fun tonight," she says warmly. "For the record, I was suspicious of Emmett's intentions when we started dating, but after awhile, I realized I was safe with him-something I hadn't felt when I was with Royce." She swallowed. "Maybe you'll feel something different with Edward. Something you didn't have with Jasper."

I exhale steadily and smile, even though she can't see it. "Thanks, Rose. I'll talk to you later."

Throughout the rest of the day, I manage to busy myself with client calls, testing meetings, and data reports. By the time I hastily change and leave the office, it's well after sunset with a light drizzle starting outside. The significance of today isn't lost on me, and nervousness cramps my stomach as a new set of questions swirl in my mind like the dark clouds overhead.

"Hey," I greet Emmett at the gym's front desk, unzipping my coat and dropping it in one of the shelves against the wall.

"How's it going?" He asks dazedly, his gaze fixed on his phone. He snorts and shakes his head to something on the screen before pocketing it. "So does this guy have any-"

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he assesses my attire for the first time, his eyes crinkling with amused confusion. "What are you wearing?"

I resist the urge to look down and check myself. "Workout clothes." His expression doesn't waver.

"What?" I ask, blinking in bewilderment, resisting the urge to check my outfit. Sure, it's trendier and tighter than what I usually wear, but that's just a coincidence. It's laundry day.

He points at me, almost accusingly. "You usually wear a tank and some yoga pants. Now you're in short-shorts and a strappy...thing. What's with the straps?" The confusion and vague skepticism is similar to when he asked me why women go to the bathroom together.

"Ok, so I don't look as homeless as I usually do," I explain slowly. "Can we please move on?"

"No. You look like you're a backup dancer for Drake." He frowns, something unpleasant occurring to him. "This isn't some kind of man-trap, is it?"

"The fact that you can be equally wrong and offensive is almost impressive, Em," I reply sardonically, taking out my boxing wrap and gloves.

"Yep, that answers my question." He crosses his arms. "Alright, well-condoms are in the cabinet that's closest to the computer. Bottom drawer."

I rear back, my eyebrows pinching together. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Hell no. I say that with pride. Sex is a great way to burn calories."

I roll my eyes, my lips curling into an automatic smile, especially at his dimpled grin. Despite his "I'm such a lovable goofball" vibe, Emmett had worked as a Wall Street stockbroker for almost a decade before he quit and trained to be a massage therapist, wisely avoiding a mental breakdown or drug overdose. He, Rose, and I met at a forgettable bar in Chinatown for a Meetup, bonding instantly over the fact that none of us wanted to be there but felt like we had to meet our social quota somehow. Alcohol helped steer the conversation towards topics other than politics and work, which led to numbers being exchanged at the end of the night. Thankfully, we never returned to the bar, but have stuck together ever since.

"Thanks for doing this again," I say gratefully, changing the topic while wrapping my hands. "I know this was kind of last-minute, so I appreciate you arranging this and kicking everyone else out."

Emmett leans back against the counter, shooting me a curious look. "Yeah, any particular reason you wanted me to lock this place down again?"

I tighten the straps of my boxing glove and shrug. "He reserved the museum for the first date; I figured I'd try to see if you could shut this place down for an hour."

"Chivalry isn't dead after all," the smooth and bemused voice of my date observes from behind me. My breathing ticks up and my shoulders tense. The ball of anxiety that rolled around my stomach all afternoon suddenly melts, a pool of warmth spreading through my abdomen. Even so, I adopt my mask of indifference before turning around.

Annnnd immediately drop it. Because damn.

I've seen some of his high school and college pictures, courtesy of Carl and Esme, so I know Edward had firmly been in the "pretty boy" category: floppy hair, mega-watt grin, lanky frame. He was like an older, ginger, green-eyed version of Zac Efron. But it's obvious that he's become more sculpted and masculine over the years-kind of like Zac Efron now.

His arms, now exposed by the sleeveless top, consist of smooth, toned muscle that flex in slow motion, or at least in my mind. It's safe to assume he lifts, but it's not vein-poppingly obvious like he's a walking PSA against steroid use. The dry-fit material of his shirt molds to a broad chest, the hard pecs defined underneath, before narrowing to a flat stomach. His toned legs and shaped calves complete the _Men's Fitness_ cover, as "I'm Too Sexy" blares in my mind.

To do list: laundry, dinner, vacuuming, and Edward fucking Masen.

Like any conscious straight male, his eyes jump straight to my cleavage, which is getting a mighty assist from the advanced boosting technology of the push-up sports bra under my top. Something I've always owned and didn't just Amazon Prime two days ago. His fingers twitch, as if he can't completely bury the horny, adolescent boy urges that surely want to grope and squeeze when they see breasts. If he ever attempts to motorboat me, then this is over.

"Well, I'm uncomfortable," Emmett announces, snapping us out of our trance as we eyed each other. So much for being subtle. I clear my throat and tuck my hair over my ear as he walks over to Edward, who shakes his outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you, man. I'm Emmett, and I own this place with a couple of other guys. You work with Bella, right?"

He nods, his green eyes flickering to me. "Sometimes it feels like I work for her, but yes, technically I do." The slightly husky tone confirms that he's just as affected as I am.

"Says the guy who pushed up the timeline for the opioids proposal."

"You can blame the CDC for that one," he responds neutrally. "Speaking of which-I hear congratulations are in order." The resulting grin reaches his eyes, the display of approval obvious and disarming. "You deserve every penny, you know."

"It was a group effort," I respond automatically, unused to such direct praise. Even so, a wide grin makes its way onto my face, and I feel the familiar burn of my blush. I resist the urge to toe the ground shyly. "But um, thanks."

We continue to stare at each other like idiots, until Emmett, shifting impatiently, breaks the silence. "Ok," he responds, drawing out the last syllable. "So Edward-the bathrooms are to the left. You can drop your stuff in one of the shelves, and we'll do a few warm-ups before going through the basics."

Edward nods, picking up his gym bag. "That sounds good to me. Nice to meet you, Emmett." He heads to the bathroom and I zero in on the round, tight butt like a complete heathen. I almost bite my knuckle until I realize I'm more than a jumble of hormones. Barely, but still. I take a deep breath.

Only now does it occur to me that this-lots of touching over tight clothes-might not be the best idea. There's nothing wrong with sex on the first or second date (#noslutshaming), but the truth is, I like him more than a lot of the guys I've dated. For that reason alone, sleeping with him would be different. This time, I can't delude myself into thinking it would be "just sex".

Counterpoint: I haven't gotten laid since the regrettable Super Bowl hook-up with Emmett's college roommate. Aaron Johnson wasn't the only person who fumbled in the end zone that night. Ugh.

"You know, I was half-joking about the condoms, but now I'm wondering if I should run out and grab some more," Emmett observes, rubbing his chin.

I tie my hair up to keep my hands busy. "How dare you. I am a lady, Emmett."

"You once ordered Dominos so frequently that they sent you a free lava cake on your birthday," he unhelpfully points out.

"That was a year ago," I retort, crossing my arms. "Plus, if it weren't for all those sandwiches and pizzas, you probably wouldn't be my personal trainer."

"And then I'd be home with my girlfriend instead of here tonight," he answers with mock gravity. "You're right, Bella. I made the right choice."

"You're welcome, Emmett," I reply cheekily. "Questionable dietary choices aside, he's...it's...different. Better."

"No offense, but the bar wasn't set very high," Emmett says bluntly, refusing to cut me any slack. Not a good sign before my workout. "You have a habit of dating commitaphobes with just enough of a jerk streak to seem interesting."

"Good to know," comes Edward's sly response from behind me. Wait, how long has he been standing there? And when did he suddenly gain the ability to move around silently? He crosses his arms. "I didn't know if you were friends with Jasper Hale, but I guess I have my answer."

Emmett had tolerated Jasper the way my parent's cat used to tolerate me. Barely. He doubles over with laughter, practically slapping his knee like a cartoon character. "Definitely not. Why do you-"

"Ok," I hastily interrupt, taking control of the conversation. "Maybe we can start the warm-ups now? More cardio, less talking?" Please, Lord, yes.

"Alright, guys. Let's start with jumping jacks."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after we've sufficiently warmed up and Emmett has taught Edward the basics, we take a short break. While Edward leaves to take a call outside and Emmett heads to the bathroom, I wipe my forehead with a towel and check my phone.

The home screen stares blankly at me as I swipe my thumb over it once, twice, three times. I remind myself it won't be a big deal, but then wonder if it's a warning sign that I need to remind myself. Stop it. Shutting my brain off, I open the message app and tap out:

Happy birthday -B

The bells attached to the entrance clang gently, and I hastily shove my phone back in my bag. The previous pinch of anxiety recedes as I straighten to face him, the corner of my lips lifting slightly. "Hey. Emmett's in the back rearranging a few things, but he'll be right out. How are you feeling?"

Edward's eyebrows are snapped together, but the concerned expression disappears as soon as I ask my question. "Great," he responds, as we head into the boxing ring. "Do you have any plans after this?" He rolls his shoulders back, and my stomach clenches at the way the ropey muscles flex. Again, damn.

"I was thinking we'd refuel at Cava," I suggest. "It's my go-to post-workout place." Restless, I raise my arms over my head and bend backward, feeling the tight lycra slide up my stomach.

"That works." The heat of his stare on the sliver of exposed skin melts into me like the first rays of sunshine after a long winter. I greedily soak it in and meet his darkened gaze, slowly lowering my arms while a hazy sluggishness permeates, making me feel like I'm drunk. His jaw clenches and I swallow roughly, sultry close-ups of us wrapped around each other blown up in my mind. Would he softly peel away the material or would it be a rough, impatient tug? Does he have calluses on his fingers, and would I feel the roughened skin gently scratch against my own? Or would he trace the goosebumps, lingering every so often to make me shiver?

Shit, my top is as thin as saran wrap. And this gym is toasty warm.

Heavy footsteps signal Emmett's arrival, and it's comical how we jerkily adjust our position and shift around, as if we've both been caught doing something much worse but without any of the satisfaction.

"Alright guys. This is just beginner sparring," Emmett reiterates, shooting me a warning glance. "I don't want any dirty or advanced moves. Yes, Bella, I'm just looking at you."

I pull down the material of my exercise top, schooling my features to a bored expression. "I promise not to wipe the floor with Edward's tears."

He scoffs, tugging on the glove and tightening the strap, purposefully posing at this point. "I can probably bench press your weight, Bella. You're about as intimidating as a rabbit."

"I'm _petite_ , you lanky-"

"Let's move on," Emmett interjects, shaking his head slightly. "I don't know why I ask but, do you both swear to fight fairly and concede graciously when one of you loses?"

I smile sweetly, conveniently baring my teeth. "Absolutely not."

His eyes sharpen with challenging amusement. "Seconded."

Emmett mutters something like, "idiots using kickboxing as foreplay", before walking to his speakers and starting the music. The first few beats of "This is What You Came For" blast through the gym, and I reach up to tighten the elastic on my ponytail.

I square my feet and raise my hands, a wholly different type of adrenaline pulsing through me.

We circle each other, sizing the other up, and shooting some appreciative glances. The first punch is slow as I purposefully aim for his glove, which he blocks with a slight delay. Not bad. Despite my taunts, I alternate my punches steadily from right to left until it's clear he's more comfortable, and can confidently block my attacks. Jab. Cross. Jab. Cross. After a few more reps, I move onto combinations of jabs, crosses, undercuts and uppercuts, increasing in force and speed when I realize he's able to stand his ground.

A thin shin of sweat covers my forehead as I bounce on my toes, keeping my fists raised to my face. I blow back a strand of hair, my pulse fluttering to the beat of an EDM song. He plants his feet and widens his stance, waiting for my next punch. Instead, I lean back slightly before rotating my hip and swing my leg forward, executing a roundhouse kick, narrowly missing his cheek to smack against his boxing glove. He staggers a half-step backward in surprise.

Triumphant, I roll my shoulders back, tilting my chin up. _Ready?_

His eyes narrow before he brings his hands back up in defense, his arms flexing with intent. _Always._

My other leg swings forward only to be met with a slightly firmer block, the smacking sound echoing through the gym. Switching my feet, I watch those shoulders tense, and his pupils expand. My heart beats at double time and I'm already breathing harder than I usually am, memorizing the way his body defends and attacks, the thrill of sparring translating into pure adrenaline. We're back in the ballroom, the office, the restaurant in Chicago-moving forward and backward, unaware of when the music will stop as we continue our dance.

My fist slices through the air, which he blocks by taking a step forward, so we're only a few feet away from each other. His other hand comes down as a cross, which I side-step easily, delivering a low punch to his abs with my other fist instead.

"I'm starting to question why I thought this was a good idea," he says hoarsely, a slight rasp in his voice.

"And I was wondering how to thank you for such a great date." Jab, cross, jab, roundhouse kick.

"Are you taking suggestions?" The trace of huskiness deepens to something rougher and unrestrained. Block, block, jab.

I step forward to my right, waiting for him to lean over before I spin around and strike him with the back of my elbow, my back brushing against his front. Both of us sharply inhale at the proximity, the sound echoing as I swing back around to face him and throw a jab right onto his chest.

"Does that answer your question?" I respond, slightly breathless, keeping my hand outstretched.

His lips turn up into a smirk while his eyes gleam with satisfaction. "Not the one I really want to ask."

Yep, not touching that one. At least in this situation, it's actually appropriate to respond with a kick. My arm powers forward while I swing my other leg into another high roundhouse. Both of which he blocks.

"Not bad," I point out, panting. "I'm impressed you haven't collapsed yet." Never mind that I'm close to lying in a puddle of my own sweat.

"Is that supposed to be a comment on my endurance?" He asks, raising his fists to his face, barely shiny with exertion. It's ridiculous how smooth and even his skin looks right now. Maybe he's wearing makeup? I can't believe I'm actually rooting for a guy to be wearing makeup.

"I hope not," Jab, cross, jab. "I dedicate an hour every day to working out. Sex is included in that category." I mean, it's quicker when it's with yourself.

"Interesting." His lips tug at the corners, delivering a jab of his own that I block.

"Really?" I ask, surprised.

"No. I was being polite." Right. "That's sad, Swan. Everyone knows good sex takes longer than an hour. Great sex is even longer." His tone drips with male arrogance and intimate experience, and my thighs clench in response.

"Thanks for the advice, Edward. I'll be sure to let the next guy know." I bite the inside of my cheek. Block, kick, cross.

He cocks his head in disbelief, straightening momentarily. "Yes, I'm sure the way you've been staring at me-the way a lion stares at a lamb-doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe I just haven't had sex in a while and I'm desperate," I retort. Wait, was that supposed to be a lie?

His eyes pin me down with undisguised intent. "Or maybe you're hoping I'll snap and fuck you against the wall of the shower."

I freeze, as immobile as one of the large swinging bags, processing my shock. Seizing an opportunity, he tags me on the shoulder, causing me to jerk backward until he fastens his arm around my waist and slams my back to his front.

Must. Resist. Urge. To. Grind. Against. Hard. Male. A drop of sweat lands on my collarbone, sliding between my cleavage. "Tell me that's what you've been thinking about all night," he demands, the throaty sound sinking into my eardrums, creating vibrations that dance along my skin.

I swallow past the lump that's suddenly formed in my throat. "What if I say yes?" I ask, my pulse pounding in my ears.

His other arm ropes around my chest and pulls me into him, until I can feel the rhythm of his breaths against my back. I count the seconds by his inhales and exhales, barely aware of my own breathing.

"Are you?" he murmurs, the sound rumbling through my eardrums. "Saying yes?"

On the one hand: fuck yes I'm ready, this mat doesn't seem that gross, condoms are in the-well, you get the picture. But on the other, less occupied hand-

I elbow his side, waiting for his grip to loosen before spinning around. "Not tonight," I finally say. The familiar flurry of reckless thoughts urge me to change my answer or apologize, but I bite my bottom lip.

Those bright green eyes fix on me with a level of intensity that simultaneously makes me want to bolt and stand my ground. Curiously, the longer this moment lasts, the more I can feel my resolve strengthening. Because when someone you're dating tells you she's not ready for sex, the only acceptable answer is-

"Ok."

Right on cue, the bells attached to the front door jingle. "How's it going?" Emmett asks, jogging leisurely towards us.

I lower my fists slowly, never breaking eye contact. "I think we're ready to cool down."

* * *

Thank god for dry-shampoo and deodorant. Fifteen minutes later, we say goodbye to Emmett and head towards the Mediterranean casual restaurant. Neither of us bothered to change, but while I vaguely resemble myself pre-workout, Edward looks like he's on his way to shoot an ad campaign for Nike. I order my usual greens and grains bowl, noting with amusement when he orders a topping-heavy, complicated concoction. We drop our things in a corner of the restaurant, sliding into the booth.

"So, you've survived your first kickboxing class," I congratulate, sipping my mango peach iced tea. "Was it everything you dreamed it would be?"

"It exceeded all expectations," he answers dryly, chewing his food. "But I think my ego might be more bruised than my body."

Say nothing, Bella. "I'm sure both will recover," I offer, spooning food into my mouth. "You actually did really well for a first timer, if that helps."

"I'll try to remember that when I crawl out of bed tomorrow morning," he replies, gulping down some water. "So why did you decide to get into kickboxing?"

"Honestly? To work off the takeout and alcohol," I explain bluntly. "I've considered yoga, and try to run the summer, but they're just not as satisfying. With kickboxing, you get to actively take out your frustrations, and it feels great."

I expect him to make a snarky comment about the Kick That Started It All, but he leans in, his gaze speculating. "I can see that. It fits your personality quite well."

Ooh, this I have to hear. "Impulsive, neurotic, and crazy?" I guess, smiling slightly.

He gets a few more bites in before wiping his mouth. "Strong, independent, and not afraid to tell a man to put a ring on it," he answers, as if rattling off a list.

We both rear back, blinking in shock. Did he just-

I burst out laughing while he drops his head to his chest, groaning. "That last one is from hours of listening to Anna's new favorite song." He shakes his head, scooping up another mouthful of food, while I continue giggling.

"Anna has great taste," I say gleefully. "Have you looked up the dance? Please tell me you can do the hand motions."

"I'm shutting down this conversation. Back to kickboxing-it makes sense."

The last hints of my amusement fade into a small smile, my gaze lowering to the smooth surface of the table. "It helps," I confirm. "But I've never been too sure of what a strong, independent woman looks like. At least underneath the superficial layer of the definition-you know, sassy, sexual, looks great in a pantsuit."

"You make those sound like negative qualities." He says this like it's a fact, but I detect the implied question.

I shrug, wondering how deeply I want to explore this rabbit hole. "It doesn't leave much room for mistakes; you're strong if you're not vulnerable." I cautiously meet his gaze, encouraged by the interest in his expression. "The idea sounds great in theory, but I don't know if it's possible."

He sips his drink, his eyes narrowed with concentration. "So what does a strong woman look like to you?"

I lean back slightly, pulling my drink towards me. "Let's just say I'm more comfortable with who I am, even with all the different definitions."

There's a flash of disappointment before it's chased away by a nod of acceptance. "Fair enough." He finishes his drink. "Although I don't think anyone who knows you considers you weak." Sincerity radiates in his voice, and I look up to see the same expression of respect that he'd worn when congratulating me on the renewed funding.

"I have fantastic PR," I reply, almost nervously, shaking off his compliment like a heavy blanket. "Plus, I think I could say the same for you."

His mouth twists, dropping his gaze to stare at the empty bowl in front of him. "Debatable. So, does this mean I get to decide where we go for the third date?"

The strain in his voice makes my eyebrows raise. And a few flags. "Sure," I reply airily, probing his expression further. For the first time, he looks away, molding his features into a stony expression. The cocky jackass is absent, substituted by his moody identical twin. "Is...everything ok?"

His eyes bounce between mine, as if he's debating how honestly he wants to answer. "Fine."

So, not that honestly then.

I stall, wondering if I should push further or leave it alone. Aside from the conversation about Jasper, Alice, and Anna, we'd kept things light and flirty, communicating through banter and appreciative glances. Maybe this is an opportunity to push for more and actually talk. But if I want this from him, then I have to give a little too. Not everything, but enough for him to open up.

I scoot forward and place my elbow on the table, trying to parse this out without going overboard. "I thought being strong meant you could walk away unaffected from anything, because then you don't have to deal with the fallout. You don't have to process any disappointment, anger, or pain. You let it slide off of you, like it doesn't matter."

My stomach clenches as I fight the familiar urge to shrink, and sit up straighter instead. "It's much simpler, but I don't know if that's possible anymore. I don't know if that control exists."

It's funny how childhood memories resurface so easily, like unearthed artifacts that slowly float to the top, peeking out and bobbing on the water's edge. Nostalgia wraps around you, offering a retrospective glimpse of your ridiculous antics and carefree moments. You snuggle in and reminisce until you feel adulthood tugging at you, the way a toddler does when she sees a candy store. You don't bother to watch as those precious memories slowly sink back under.

This is how I think normal people feel when they recall their childhood.

Instead, my memories always manifest at the worst times and never by choice, lingering long enough to leave me shaken. Renee's outbursts serve as a cautionary tale, reminding me to always maintain my composure, especially because I inherited her temper. Nothing could be solved by making a scene and or through emotional blackmail. You don't get to feel better by making others around you feel shittier.

Granted, I haven't been consistently successful (a certain Georgetown coffee shop comes to mind), but it's why I learned to evade compliments, opting for sarcasm instead. It's why I feigned indifference even when I'm spiraling and completely lost. It's why I accepted things the way they are, rather than the way they should be.

Most of my friends have joked about becoming their mother at some point, and I get it, I do. But I would be destroyed if I become anything like my mother.

He leans forward, his gaze boring into my own, and I hold my breath. The previous troubled look has been replaced by a contemplative one, his brow furrowed. Neither of us dare look away, suspended by the words that linger in the space between us. We're exploring new territory, with no jokes or amusing observations as our shields, and I wait for him to take the step with me.

"Let's get out of here," he suggests instead, sliding out of the booth.

Or we could be on completely different planets. I blink, but do the same and grab my coat. We dispose of the trash and step out into the night, where the earlier rain has stopped and left behind a fresh, earthy scent. He walks slowly to keep pace with me, and I fiddle with the buttons of my coat.

"Three years ago, ABS contracted with MediRing, a small pharmaceutical company based in Switzerland, that was pushing to test a drug that sought to alleviate the symptoms of rare, neurodegenerative diseases among children," he begins quietly. He sounds like he's narrating the beginning of a murder mystery, and a sense of foreboding makes its way down my spine.

He tucks his hand in his pockets, keeping his gaze straight ahead. "I told the research directors who were on the project with me that this drug was too risky, but they mentioned the company had a solid reputation and completed Phase I testing with no negative side effects."

He sighs, slowing down further. The street light illuminates his weary expression, and my chest tightens at the obvious regret on his face. "A year into the project, almost half of the research population who'd been given the drug reported serious complications-liver failure, cervical cancer, infertility."

I barely mask my gasp, as my eyes widen with horror. Jesus.

He continues without looking at me. "My partners, so to speak, along with the CEO, decided to cover everything up. We told the patient's families that we'd pay for the additional treatment needed, if they signed NDAs."

"It turns out ABS only funds a limited number of procedures." His voice hardens. "So I hired a P.I. to keep tabs on the patients and when they receive treatment to make sure everything else is covered."

My mouth closes, and I try to blink away the shock I feel, numbly shifting to the side so a couple can move past me.

"Oh my God," I say, stunned. "I'm so sorry that this happened, Edward. I'm...so sorry." I don't know if these are the right words to say, but consolation and grief pour thickly into my voice. It's so much worse than what he'd originally told me, and the overall situation makes my stomach turn. I'd heard of companies that cut corners, exploiting those who don't have the means to fight back, but his story reminds me that it's not just unethical-it's cruel.

He turns toward me with a resigned expression. "There's going to be an investigation," he explains. "And I'll be called to testify."

He shakes his head slowly and swallows. "I could-I should have tried harder to stop them. I knew things were suspicious, but didn't monitor the situation. I thought Be-the other directors would stop the trials immediately, but…"

He stops, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. His chest moves steadily, as if he's reminding himself to breathe. Unable to stop, I reach out and place my hand on his arm, even as it trembles. The automatic "It's not your fault" lingers at the edge of my throat, but I swallow it like a bitter pill. It may not be his fault, but he's not exactly innocent either.

"Maybe you're right," I say honestly. "But that was then. It sounds like you're trying to help the families now. That matters." My voice softens. "Do what you need to-but don't forget to move forward."

He scoffs, the sound so derisive that I almost flinch. "What if I don't deserve to move forward?"

I drop my hand from his arm. "Blaming yourself won't change what's happened," I explain softly. "You can either let this define your career and who you are, or you can try to fix it."

A doubtful frown crosses his face. "Even if I spend the rest of my life making amends, I don't know if the guilt will go away."

I pull back, placing my hands in my pockets instead. It's tempting to tell him what he wants to hear. It's much easier to say "everything's going to be ok", rather than figure out what that looks like. But he told me the truth, ugly and reprehensible as it were, and I decide to answer just as honestly.

"I wish I could tell you that the families and patients will forgive you," I admit. "I can't, because that's not something you or I can decide."

My eyes lock on his, and my voice is firm with what I say next. "But the big picture isn't about you, Edward. It's about holding those accountable for what happened. It's about preventing this from happening again."

I take a step closer, lowering my voice and trying to stop the words from shaking. "Those families deserve someone to fight for them. And you are strong enough to do that."

Shock outlines his features, as if he can't believe my words. Or maybe he wants to, but needs some time to reorganize his feelings about what to do.

Somehow, we've moved towards each other until I notice that we're only inches apart. I don't know if I make any sense. I don't know if I'm coming off as a self-righteous bitch or a helpful confidante. But then the cynical, defeated look-identical to the one I've seen on my face-starts to crack. Those thick eyebrows straighten and the edges of his eyes soften. Forehead wrinkles smooth themselves out, until the gloomy expression is gradually replaced by the same one in the museum.

The corner of his lips curl up again, while mine part. The expression on his face is unguarded, almost resembling tenderness, and I feel like I'm melting into the ground.

"You are...incomparable, Bella Swan," he declares softly. The low, slightly hoarse tone incites a shiver that I don't bother to suppress.

He leans in further, his warmth shielding me from the brisk, January wind. "You think being strong is the same as feeling nothing or controlling how you feel." His lips brush against my ear. "But it doesn't have to be that complicated. Being vulnerable isn't a weakness because finding people who care about you shouldn't come at a price."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, as the need to protect myself wars with the insistent ache to believe him. To believe what he's saying.

He pulls back and straightens, gaze searing into mine. "Because you're going to realize that it's true. That you can deserve more. And I don't think you need me for that to happen. I'm not trying to prove that I'm right. I just want to be the guy who tells you first."

Embarrassingly, I feel the faint sting of tears at the back of my eyes, and I'm horrified by my reaction. It's as if I physically can't handle the way he's looking at me, and the corresponding rush that threatens to smash the fragile mental ecosystem that I've built and rebuilt. He looks like I've offered him something valuable, something other people have thrown away while he runs after it, scooping it up gently and holding it still in the palm of his hand.

"Bella?" Edward asks softly. "It's getting pretty late."

I inhale shakily, nodding. "Yeah," I croak. "I'm only a few minutes from here."

As we walk together in silence, Rose's earlier question pops up in my mind again, only now the answer is obvious. The very thing that I've been missing these past few years in my failed relationships? Maybe even the major reason Jasper and I never worked out? It's partnership. It's being heard and hearing out the other person as we work together. It's equally supporting the other even under the worst of circumstances.

I don't need someone to fight for me; I need someone to fight with me.

Too soon, we both approach my apartment building, but I open the door for him. He raises an eyebrow, but follows closely behind. By the time we're right outside my apartment, I turn around and face him.

"I feel like you should've done this-walking me home-on the first date," I tease, my lips quirking.

"You were the one who asked for the Uber to drop you off," he points out, gratefully accepting the transition from super heavy topic to light banter. "It seems we're doing things a bit out of order." He moves closer, those broad shoulders and defined muscles taunting me, daring me to slide my hands under his shirt and feel the smooth skin underneath my fingertips.

I shiver and revel in the way his eyes grow hooded, the thick eyelashes sweeping his cheeks. "Order is overrated," I reply, not bothering to hide what I want.

"Perhaps," He murmurs, edging closer until I flatten myself against the cold wood of my door. "But if I recall correctly, this is _typically_ when the goodnight kiss happens."

"You and your goodnight kisses," I respond, coyly referring to our highly unprofessional dinner during the Chicago site visit. "So _typically_ , what would-"

He ducks down and presses his lips to mine, the soft pressure blooming into a familiar warmth that makes me blink in surprise. Sexy jerk. Like old dance partners, his lips take the lead, gently coaxing mine, until we take up right where we left off at the afterparty-pushing, pulling, licking and sucking.

I gasp into his mouth when his fingers roll up my top and dig into my hips, pulling me against him. The first skin to skin contact makes me flush, and I faintly register the uncomfortable heat even as I revel in burning. When he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue with mine, I finally give in the urge to reach up and lightly squeeze his biceps, feeling the muscle flex powerfully in response.

A deep moan teases out of me, and he reaches up to thread his hand in my hair, cradling the back of my neck. He pulls away, and I almost yank him back violently. "Remind me again that you're saying no," he demands roughly, eyes blazing. "Because I'm seconds away from making you come on my hand."

Sounds like a plan. "I don't think I said no to that," I respond breathlessly, my eyes drifting closed when he leans in again, kissing down my neck and sucking lightly at the base.

"Oh, fuck." He now holds the record for taking the least time to find my external G spot.

His satisfied chuckle is nothing short of male arrogance, and I'd roll my eyes if my body wasn't itching with arousal. Tiny Os dance behind my lids with pom-poms that cheer me on. Pretty soon, I'll be nothing but a live wire, unable to focus on anything but a release.

...Maybe just a few more minutes.

He kisses like he's arguing passionately, a nonverbal advocating of more, more, more and let me show you why I'm right. I've thrown my punches and gotten in my kicks earlier, so I listen to his convincing and allow myself to be convinced. Yes yes yes, I cry by entangling his tongue with mine again and sucking it lightly. I understand. I concede. Fuck winning.

His hands drift to my ass, gripping tightly before kneading in a steady rhythm. A deep growl of approval stirs from his chest. Thank you, squats. He shifts closer to rub against me more insistently, and I feel the outline of his thick cock. Holy-this time my eyes roll so far back I think I see my brain, where an "Out of Order" sign has been planted. Makes sense.

One hand reaches up to my super friendly nipples, which have been waving hello all night long. Mouth dry, sanity so long gone it's a theoretical concept, I curve into him with anticipation. As soon as he brushes over one peak, another strangled gasp leaves my lips. I feel him pause, as if he's documenting it-erogenous zone #2.

Suddenly, he adjusts his position until his thigh works its way between mine, and holy fuck does that pressure feel good. Don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop. I dig into his biceps, my movements growing desperate. His other hand tweaks my other nipple, eliciting an identical gasp, and I can almost hear him think, "Let's do this."

This time his lips attach to my neck again, the heavy breaths directly on my pulse, and that's when I stop thinking, immersing myself in the multitude of sensations that build me up to a high that I can only hope will live up to its name. His thumbs trace circles around my nipples, thrumming and pinching to deliver a jolt that adds to the momentum. I grind harder against his thigh, completely abandoning any shame or self-respect, desperately grasping for an outlet for my rising frustration.

"You have no idea," he bites out. "How much I want to rip that flimsy top, shove down those ridiculous shorts, and bury myself in you."

I let out a squeaky moan, as if I can't decide whether to be shocked or more turned on. He rubs and grinds harder, and I feel my body stiffen. "It'd be so easy," he rasps, a combination of taunting and warning in his voice. "And you'd savor every inch."

Fuck yes. The words flash in my mind like fireworks before fading quickly, as I await another set of explosions. "How tightly are you going to grip me, sweetheart?" He growls, pinching my nipples. "Are you going to clench around me?"

Higher, higher, tighter, tighter. I gasp shakily, my fingers frantically clawing at his skin like I'm a wild animal that can't be contained. The remaining synapses that are firing focus on the insistent pressure between my legs. My eyes squeeze shut tightly, and it feels like I'm shifting, blurring from all the excitement that thrums through me. Every atom that makes up my being is vibrating furiously, like bees that angrily buzz around an intruder in their hive.

"Edwa-Edward," I manage to exhale. "Oh, fuck-"

He licks my earlobe. "You're going to fuck yourself on my cock like a good girl, aren't you?" He punctuates this by biting my neck, and that's. When. I. Fucking. Lose. It.

"Mmph-" Luckily, he covers my mouth with his, probably saving us from an indecent exposure arrest.

HAAAAALELUJAH. HAAAALELUJAH. An imaginary choir bursts into song as I detonate, little pieces of myself fluttering to the ground like a balloon that pops from being overinflated. I wait for the last explosions to fade, the ripples gently lapping at me until my brain's functionality is restored. The pounding of my heartbeat dulls to a more reasonable rhythm, and a dreamy smile affixes itself to my face, like I'm a fangirl who just met her celeb-

Wait. OH FUCK. DID I JUST GET OFF ON HIS KNEE OUTSIDE MY APARTMENT?

"Ok," I croak, opening my eyes, wincing slightly at how needy I sound. "That was...um, yeah. But we need to stop." The request is weakly spoken, and I blow my hair from my face.

"I disagree." The gravelly-voiced challenge forces me to look at him, which is a mistake. "I need to strip you out of that ridiculous outfit and run my tongue over every inch of you."

A defeated laugh spills out of my lips, slightly swollen from his bites and kisses. I attempt a half-hearted punch at his solid chest. "I hate you," I mutter. "You don't fight fair."

He captures my hand, rubbing over the knuckles with his thumb. His lips turn down in mock pity while wicked mischief lights up his eyes. "No," he relents, leaning back.

He smirks, before adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder, causing those toned arms to flex. "But it feels so fucking good, doesn't it?"

Hell yeah it does. And neither of us are even naked...yet. "Goodnight, Edward," I choke out. A slightly embarrassed but satisfied smile crosses my face.

He opens his mouth before closing it. "Goodnight," he settles, voice still husky. "I'll see you tomorrow." Never have four words sounded so fucking promising.

We both linger for a few more seconds, watching each other as if we're wondering if one of us will break from any one of the things that have happened tonight. How did we get here again? I awkwardly chuckle, fucking butterflies erupting in my stomach when I see his small, pleased smile. Good Lord.

Once I close the door behind me, I slide down and shakily run my hand through my hair.

There's a chance I'm totally fucked.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think by writing a review; you'll get a sneak peek at the next chapter for your effort :)**


	19. The Beginning of the End

**Helloooo! I'm horrible, I know. Basically, there's been lots of life changes and it's been...not easy nor fun. But I won't bore you with the details-onward and forward! Some of you might not love this chapter (especially the end), but I think everything has a price and baggage is only easy to discard in hindsight. *bites nails***

 **Reminder: Yes, this story has a HEA. I just refuse to make it easy for the characters ;)**

Chapter 19

EPOV

Her dark blue eyes narrow with suspicion. Tension radiates from her like cartoon squiggles, but I stand my ground. This isn't the first stare down I've had with her, and it sure as hell won't be the last.

But it is the first one that I'm going to win.

"Outside," Anna demands, her finger stabbing at the door behind me. She taps her foot petulantly, epitomizing the stock image of an extremely annoyed toddler.

"No, Nemo," I say with the slightest edge in my voice. "It's too cold. You'll get sick."

She blinks, appalled that I'm saying no to her highness. Better get used to that expression, Alice. You'll be seeing it for the next 16 years.

"Go outside," she reiterates more loudly this time, like I'm a machine that didn't process her request.

"No." I cross my arms to muster up the illusion of authority.

Her forehead wrinkles with confused indignation, causing the corner of my lips to twitch. Keep it together, Cullen.

Anna's eyes dart between me and the door, silently considering her next move. She looks like she's performing calculus, and it reminds me of teenage Alice huffing with frustration over the same subject. Other toddlers might start crying or throwing a tantrum, but she didn't go for the low hanging fruit.

This is the daughter of a lawyer and a politician, after all.

Her chin dips to her chest and she wrings her hands behind her, swaying on her toes. The pout is replaced by a toothy smile, complete with an adoring look that would make a puppy jealous.

Shit.

Stay strong. Don't break. Alice is going to give you so much shit if you get her sick. Again.

"Pwwwweease," she asks, her voice hitching higher to sound like a wounded animal. Big blue eyes bore into me with unabashed pleading, her eyebrows slanting up to the dark mass of curls on her head. This was The Pout-the nuclear option in her facial expressions arsenal, and even Alice caved when she was on its receiving end.

Fuck it.

"Ten minutes," I grumble half-heartedly, my chest warming at her excited giggle. "Don't tell mommy." Or I'll get another lecture on the dangers of spoiling her daughter, and what that might look like ten years from now-complete with a pointed look.

Even though we grew up the same neighborhood, Alice and I had radically different lives. Her parents had been ultraconservative, disapproving of everything that she did or said-her dresses were too short, her shirts were too tight, and her voice was too shrill. College was supposed to help her find a suitable husband, not jump start a law career.

The only reason her parents tolerated me was because they hoped that I'd propose. Clearly, they didn't know that the longest relationship I'd had at 18 was with my right hand and the bottle of moisturizer on my nightstand.

Three months after she moved in with me, Alice called her parents and told them she was pregnant. What followed is still one of the worst conversations I've ever heard-things no parents should say to their child. She cried herself to sleep that night, while I drove to IKEA. By morning, there was a brand new crib, hastily assembled, sitting in the office that would eventually become a nursery.

After zipping up the monstrous puffer coat that completes Anna's transition from human to marshmallow, I bend down to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of baby powder and strawberry shampoo.

"Ready?" She jerks her head up and down furiously, tapping her feet in excitement. A stupid grin stretches across my face, as my chest fills with pride at being hustled by a two-year old.

Half an hour later, we get caught by Alice, who simply rolls her eyes and tells us to get inside for dinner.

* * *

It's late enough in December that the office is mostly empty when I arrive. The remaining rooms are occupied by the procrastinators, the workaholics, and those who are probably a bit of both.

As efficient as she is, Bella definitely falls into the last category.

"It sounds like the sample size needs to be recalculated," she speculates, her voice growing louder as I turn the corner to her office. I can almost picture the pursed lips and pinched eyebrows.

The door swings open, revealing a splash of blue against the canvas of the white walls. Bella swerves over, phone in hand. "Hey," she mouths, curiosity flashing across her features.

She's perched on the edge of her chair, her long dark hair piled on top of her head in an organized mess, just like the state of her office. As much as she likes to protest otherwise, I've never seen her desk not covered by papers, pens, or snack wrappers. There has to be some kind of system in place, but quantum physics is probably easier to understand.

For a few seconds, I study her profile, welcoming the rush of heat powered by the memory of last night.

Stroking her nipples before pinching them, earning a hungry moan.

Watching her fall back against the wall, lips parted and wet.

Hearing her gasp when she came, my knee wedged between her thighs.

I clench and unclench my fist. Next time, she's screaming my name.

Impatience flashes across her face as she listens to whoever's on the other line, and her fingers drum in an agitated rhythm against the solid oak desk.

Wait, we're alone and it's after hours?

I reach out and carefully lock the door, the sound of the click amplified in the silence.

Her gaze snaps to mine. "Yes, I think that makes sense," she answers cautiously, trying to keep her tone even. "Let's touch base during our check-in meeting with Sloan-Hewitt on Monday. Do you have any other questions?"

A few seconds later, she tilts her head skyward and rub her temples. "Great question. The meeting was productive," she grits out. "We largely focused on…"

Looks like there won't be any divine intervention. I cough to conceal my snicker, and approach her desk. My hands slide out of my pockets as I lean against it, spreading my knees. Just enough to encroach on her personal space without invading it.

Bella shoots me an unimpressed look, her head basically level with my waist. And more accurately, my cock. _Is that it?_

Despite her lackluster expression, I notice the quickened pace of her chest rising and falling. The slight shift as her thighs rub together, causing the dress to ride up. The way she grips the phone a bit tighter.

My grip tightens on the desk as I inch closer, hovering like a satellite. _When I fuck you, this restraint won't exist._

Her eyes darken and her mouth twists with defiance. _You mean if you fuck me._

I press my calf against her chair in the small space between her knees. _No, I don't._

Her eyes narrow in calculation. "Mm hmm," she remarks absently. Heady anticipation flows through me like honey, the warm weight settling at the base of my spine.

Her fingers loosen around the phone, and I hear the chatter of another confused analyst but don't register anything he's saying. Instead, I watch her slowly slide forward until her thighs reach the edge of the seat.

She tilts her head and stares at me like a scientist examining an unknown species. Watching, waiting, wanting. The corner of her lips twitch.

And she slowly spreads her legs.

The blue fabric of her dress lifts, seemingly centimeter by centimeter, revealing smooth upper thighs that part and threaten to bring me to my fucking knees...until she stops.

My eyes snap back up to her face, the question obvious. Despite the blush splashed across her skin, a devious smile lurks around her lips.

It's just enough to dare me to take a closer look, offering nothing and everything at the same time.

"Bella? BELLA?"

Much to my disappointment, her legs snap shut and she swerves back around. "Sorry, Leonard. I think that all sounds, um, good." She clears her throat and brushes a lock of hair behind her hair. "Let's talk about the details next week."

The phone slams down, jerking dangerously towards the edge of the desk. "If you're calling me with a long-winded question after 5 PM just days before Christmas, then you're a jerk who doesn't know the true meaning of Christmas, right?"

Bella shakes her head, reaching over to grab something and stumbling. "Sorry, I'm venting. You're here for the final report, which needs to be reviewed this weekend so I can submit on Monday."

What report? "Among other things," I reply, shifting discreetly.

She raises an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed to keep things professional at the office."

"During business hours." I add, enjoying the way confusion obscures her features before realization dawns. I knew she probably wouldn't remember that caveat, which is why I casually dropped it into our brief negotiation in the first place.

The devil's in the details, and I look great in a suit.

Bella shoots me a playfully accusing look. "I should have known better than to negotiate with someone who does that for a living."

"Why?" I ask slyly. "Do you think you've been cheated?"

"Not yet." She squints at me, a small smile perched on her face while packing up her laptop. "Why? Are you planning to take advantage of me?" The familiar huskiness slithers under the feigned nonchalance, like we're playing tag and just within reach of each other.

I shift closer until we're inches apart. "Absolutely. In fact, I think it's safe to say you're completely fucked."

Somehow my words have the opposite effect. Bella bursts out laughing, clutching her chest. "You're ridiculous," she asserts, her eyes warm.

"That line is fantastic," I object, sarcastically offended. "Don't tell me it's not effective."

"Oh, it is," she replies, still laughing. "That's what makes it ridiculous."

I scoff, unable to fight the resulting grin. "I can take a look at this later." My fingers tap the draft of the final report. "Dinner?"

Bella nods, relief evident on her face. "Done. Can we get food that doesn't need to be defrosted this time? Call me picky, but I prefer my meal unfrozen."

I shake my head, feigning disappointment. "I knew you'd be high maintenance."

Bella purses her lips, pretending to look bewildered. "Weird. That's what my personal chef says too."

"You and I have that in common," I reply dryly, following her to the door as she slips on her coat. The knot in my chest loosens when I check my phone and don't see anything from Caine. For now.

We walk silently to the elevator while I ponder the local restaurant options. DuPont is nice, but predictable. Georgetown's overpriced and caters to tourists. Maybe Woodley Park?

"Oh!" She whirls around and snaps her fingers. "I'm paying," she says firmly. "You paid last time, so it's only fair."

Unable to resist the opportunity to fuck with her, I press the elevator button and let out an exasperated sigh. "I get it, Bella. You're an independent woman who doesn't need a man to buy her shiny things."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll take shiny things. Just don't expect to sweep me off my feet with them."

"Good," I answer, hearing the familiar chime. My voice lowers. "I'd rather have you on your knees anyway."

Whatever shock I'd expected to see disappears in a second. Eyes half-lidded, Bella arches toward me.

"You should," she replies throatily, as the doors open. Sucking in a shaky breath, she steps in.

Fuck. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way my cock pulses against the fabric of my pants, and follow after her.

The door shuts behind us.

What is it about an elevator that magnifies sexual tension?

Is it being trapped in a private space and counting the seconds that pass with each floor? Is it being able to do whatever the fuck that you and the other person want until the doors open?

My eyes meet hers. Or is it knowing that you're both going to find out?

"No," she says firmly.

Snickering, I stare straight ahead and try to ignore the heat coming off of us. "Number six." A beat passes before I elaborate. "This is the sixth place where I'm going to watch you swallow my cock."

Her breath hitches. "Prove that you deserve it."

She's so close that I can see her eyes have dilated, the hungry expression probably mirroring my own. I gently stroke her bottom lip, which parts and wets my thumb. "Only if you beg me first, sweetheart."

At that moment, the doors open. A much too familiar voice slices through the erotically charged moment.

"Perfect timing! I was just about to call and ask if you were on your way," Carlisle announces cheerily, as effective as a bucket of ice water. His grin widens when he spots Bella. "Are you coming too?"

She jerks back like a startled cat, her eyes widening. Subtle. "Oh, no. No, we're not-he and I-are not coming." she adds hurriedly. "We're going. Leaving, actually. Separately."

Carlisle's eyebrows raise. If there wasn't a giant "they're fucking" lightbulb going off in his mind before, then there's definitely one now. Possibly with an "I knew it" sign attached.

"Well, you're invited to dinner if you haven't eaten," he suggests slowly, as if it's a choice. "Esme hasn't seen you for months, and I know she misses you."

"Really? Guilt tripping?" I point out, repressing the urge to roll my eyes and failing. "I thought that was beneath you."

"Why would you think that?" he exclaims, turning to Bella with conspiratorial grin. "That's the best play in the parent handbook."

She laughs uncomfortably, still regrouping. "I appreciate the invite, but I have to get home." Her eyes meet mine in half-apology. "Definitely soon, though."

I love my dad, but I'm going to kill him.

"C'mon, it's a Friday night," Carlisle cajoles, more creepily than he probably intended. "I'm sure whatever you have to do can wait." He shrugs, a little too casually. "Plus, Esme's making cinnamon rolls for dessert."

Bella's eyes glaze over momentarily, her face taking on a dreamy expression. For fucking cinnamon rolls. I'd be insulted if I weren't already turned on.

Eventually, she blinks and her shoulders drop with a sigh of resignation. "I'm taking one to go," she asserts, sternly pointing at Carlisle, who fist pumps in response.

No, really.

"You can take two," he chirps happily. "I'm just going to grab my laptop and then I'll bring the car 'round."

That's right. We're getting a ride from my dad like awkward pre-teens who just stumbled out of a middle school dance.

For the second time.

While I debate the pros and cons of the unexpected invitation, Bella sidles closer. "His ambushing skills put the herd of wildebeests from the _Lion King_ to shame."

"I wouldn't call that an ambush," I correct, amused at the way she fidgets with the strap of her purse. Nervous Bella. What a welcome surprise. "Just unfortunate timing."

"And childhood trauma," she muses, chewing her lip, still avoiding my gaze. "So. Dinner. With your parents."

"You've had dinner with them before," I point out nonchalantly. "Presumably at the same dinner table."

Her eyes snap up to mine. "Yeah, but I probably didn't think about getting fucked on it."

Game over. "Two hours," I propose, making some quick calculations and trying not to sweat. "Then we grab the cinnamon rolls and head back to my apartment."

"My place is closer," she counters.

"My place is bigger." With a plethora of sturdy surfaces.

Her chin juts forward. "My place is next to D.C.'s best brunch place."

What is it with D.C. and brunch? I scoff. "My place has a hot tub."

I don't miss the impressed look that flashes across her face. "Fine," she relents. "But I have to stop by my place and grab some things."

"I'm sure you can find whatever you need at my place," I say impatiently, craning my neck to see what's taking Carlisle so long. At this rate, we'll be stuck at dinner for three hours.

"I didn't know you had women's clothing and makeup in your apartment," Bella responds with fake concern. "Is this something we should talk about?"

Cute. I cross my arms. "What I have are sweatshirts with matching sweatpants. And you don't need to wear makeup."

Her left eye twitches. Not a good sign. "Thanks for sharing your opinion. I can probably direct you to my place, but I have my phone as backup."

I run my fingers through my hair. "You're being unreasonable, Bella," I point out, trying to keep my voice down as I spot Carlisle walking towards us. "And frankly, kind of a brat."

She steps back, her mouth dropping open. "You did not just call-"

"Sorry, I got roped into a phone call," Carl explains, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Curiosity lights up his features as he looks between us, taking in the strained body language. "Shall we?"

Bella turns toward him, her shoulders relaxing. "Definitely. The metro station is a ten minute walk from your house, right?"

For fuck's sake. "I'll take you home," I interject curtly, catching her pointed look and nodding in response, my lips tightening. A satisfied smile flits across her face, and we walk down to the garage.

I don't think so. "Then we can go back to my place," I add nonchalantly.

Murder eyes. That's the first description that comes to mind when Bella whips her head to me, fury drawing her features tight. It doesn't help that this parking lot is barely lit either.

Carlisle's pace remains steady, never missing a beat. "Oh?" He asks airily, pretending to miss the not-so-thinly veiled implication.

Thank god for witnesses. "I accidentally left some interview transcripts at home that need to be included in the final report that's due Monday." Even though the final draft of that report is in my briefcase right now.

"Actually, I think I'll head back after dinner and grab them from you tomorrow," Bella grits out, still glaring at me.

I hold her stare. "Oh, I think you'll want it tonight."

"Sounds like you both need to figure out what you want," Carlisle asserts, unlocking the car doors.

He winks. "After dinner, that is."

It hits me then that his timing might not have been so accidental.

* * *

Fortunately, the car ride is peppered with updates on work and Bella's progress on the recently renewed contract with the CDC. Her enthusiasm over this topic is obvious, and it's clear she enjoys the data collection aspect of her position much more than the management. It's only after, when we meet an excited Esme at the front door, that we stop talking about work and inhale dinner.

"This is delicious, Esme," Bella gushes, reaching for her wine. "I'd ask you for the recipe if I thought I could pull it off."

Mom waves her hand dismissively. "It's surprisingly easy, Bella. I'll write it down and stick it with the cinnamon roll."

"When my apartment goes up in flames, can I mention you on the insurance claim?"

"You're more than welcome to use our kitchen," Esme suggests, her tone a little too casual. "Edward and Carlisle hardly ever step foot in there."

"Hey now," chimes the walking fire hazard. "That was one time."

"You almost burned the house down with the furniture," the voice of reason points out. "And barbecued our son."

Nothing wrong with the order there.

"Anyway, it's been much too long," Esme muses, placing her hand under her chin. "When was the last time we saw each other? The company picnic in July?"

Bella swallows and nods slowly. "I think you're right."

"Much too long ago. I know you're both busy, but it would be nice to see you around here more often." Her head swerves slightly to include me in her crosshairs.

"I was here two weekends ago," I remind her, somewhat defensively.

"And I'm your mother who's a half hour drive from your apartment." She leans forward, interest glittering in the green eyes identical to my own. "Unless there's another woman in your life?"

As subtle as a hernia. "Ten minutes before asking about my dating status." I wipe my mouth and sit back. "I think you broke your previous record, mom."

Esme smirks, tilting her head. "Well, you know how I like to give you space."

Right. I make a show of clearing my throat, not-so-subtly glancing at Bella. "I'd rather not talk about it now."

She rolls her eyes, like I'm being overly dramatic. "Oh, calm down, Edward. Bella's already dating someone." The heat of her stare shifts to my right.

Bella's eyes widen, clearly wondering when she'd been wiretapped. "Uh, ye-yes. Just a few dates. Nothing to write home about."

I cough in protest, fighting a smile when I feel her ankle press against my calf in warning.

Carlisle leans forward, chuckling. "Back in my day, the first date was an introduction, the second date was a discussion, and the third was an engagement."

He shoots me a teasing grin."Thankfully times have changed. Otherwise, Edward would've been engaged almost five times by now."

"True," Esme chirps, glancing at me slyly. "Though you've had a lot more first dates, sweetheart."

"Sounds like I take after my parents then," I shoot back, unruffled. "What's that story about Woodstock that Grandpa Jack likes to tell-"

"Touché, Edward," Mom interrupts, conceding with a hint of warning in her tone.

Satisfied, I sit back and sip my wine. They could air all of my dirty laundry; I'd heard enough horrifying stories about their crazy Bonnie and Clyde-esque adventures from my grandparents to know that this is a fight they'd lose.

Esme refocuses on Bella and sweetly asks, "I assume it's going well, dear?"

The _Jaws_ theme starts to play in my head. "It is. But it's early, so." She quickly takes another healthy sip of her wine.

"What's his name?"

I shoot her an exasperated look. "Mom-can we please wrap up the investigation?"

Esme blinks innocently. "Last question, I promise."

"Ted," Bella volunteers, taking another sip. "His name is Ted." A slightly triumphant expression flashes across her face.

The three of us frown. "That's a...nice name," Esme settles on, politely leaving out the fact that it's usually associated with male librarians in their 50s.

Yes, that is a fact. I invent absurd stereotypes and I double down.

Bella looks around at all of us, and quirks an eyebrow. "This is coming from three people named Edward, Carlisle, and Esme?"

"It's a classic name," Esme backtracks. "One belonging to a great president."

"And a serial killer," I mutter under my breath, earning an amused chuckle from my dad.

"He's a great guy," Bella continues, like she's finished downloading his fabricated profile. "He used to be an architect, and now he's a professor at Columbia."

Wait a second. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don't laugh. "Does he live in New York with his best friends?"

"As a matter of fact, he does," Bella deadpans. "They actually went to college together, and it's a pretty funny story of how he met them."

Esme shoots us a confused glance with a hint of suspicion. "Interesting. Well, I hope things work out between you two." Her pointed stare indicates that she doesn't mean Ted.

It takes a special kind of sociopath to say something nice but mean something completely different.

I love my parents. They're champions of finding the middle ground-assertive not aggressive, honest but not detailed, and stern but not strict. Instead of pushing me towards an instrument or a career, they gave me options. I used to think they did this to help me. Present all possible outcomes of a choice so I knew exactly what was at stake.

Now I think they just like to fuck with me.

Case in point. "You know, there's supposed to be a storm later tonight," Mom points out, with a note of concern. "Why don't you both stay over? Bella can take the guest room."

Conveniently located next to my bedroom. I wipe my mouth with the napkin, trying to figure out her endgame. "Don't you think you're a bit too young to be a grandmother?"

Bella and Carlisle almost do identical spit-takes, but Esme doesn't even blink. "That's quite an assumption, son." Her voice is mostly even, with a hint of mischief underneath.

I cock an eyebrow and wait.

Esme sniffs. "And to answer your question, no." This is punctuated with a hopeful look at Bella, who responds with a shaky smile and edges away from me.

I suppress a groan. Outstanding.

Carlisle shakes his head and pushes up from the table with his empty plate in hand. "I swear, it's like watching a _House of Cards_ episode," he bemoans. "Esme-leave the boy alone. Edward-you know better than to rile up your mother."

We both direct outraged looks at him, but immediately swerve around when Bella's laugh cuts off any retort. "Oh my God," she exclaims, shoulders shaking. "You should have your own sitcom. I haven't been this entertained since discovering _Shark Tank_ on Netflix."

We merely stare at her and wait.

Bella frowns. "Fine, it was _Top Chef_."

More staring and silence.

"Ok, it was the _Bachelorette_!" She huffs, throwing up her hands in mock exasperation.

"Is that the show where a hundred women fight over one man?" Carlisle questions, stacking up dishes. Whenever Esme cooked, it was automatically assumed that we'd clean up. I used to complain when I was younger, until I realized that peanut butter sandwiches and cereal weren't the best dinner options.

"The opposite," Bella corrects, getting up to grab the empty wine glasses on the table. "And it's the perfect off-switch for your brain. The definition of mindlessness, desperation, and human depravity." An enthusiastic grin breaks out. "I'm obsessed with it."

I playfully flinch back, reaching over to grab the utensils. "Seriously? A dating show?"

She stands, patting my arm reassuringly. "Look, they'll always have another season. Don't be bitter just because you were rejected this time."

I pick up another plate. "First of all, my application would be immediately accepted. Second, and more importantly, I would win."

Bella scoffs, her finger curling around the stem of another wine glass and adding it to the bouquet in her other hand. "Explain."

Arms loaded, we push past the kitchen door to the sink. "I'm a successful, good-looking doctor," I point out, turning on the faucet to rinse out the dishes. "Who's my competition? Models and aspiring drummers?"

She dutifully grabs the hand towel on the counter and starts to dry the first dish that I pass over. "Yep. And you're not a doctor."

I shrug and hand her another plate. "I've got a doctorate. Close enough."

"So you're saying that you'd be able to make any woman fall in love with you?"

"Not even a little. I'm saying I'd be able to fake it until I score an advertising deal on Instagram."

Her eyes widen in amusement. "So you do keep up with the show!" Excitement threads through her words, causing a primeval alert to set off in my mind. I have to shut this down before she starts getting ideas about marathoning _The Bachelor_ with Pinot Grigio and goat cheese.

As much as I respect women, I don't think I'll ever completely understand them.

I eye her warily and grab the sponge. "Calm down. Alice used to watch it all the time in high school."

Like a stormcloud that appears out of nowhere, her expression falters and she looks down at the plate in her hands. It's inevitable that we circle back to Alice and Anna. It just means Hale isn't far behind.

I look away, squirting more soap onto the sponge. "Have you heard from him? Jasper?"

She smoothly reaches up to stack the plate in the cupboard, exuding the kind of calm that takes more effort than it actually looks. "It was his birthday last week. We texted a bit, but not much else." Her voice grows fainter, quiet with caution.

I keep my gaze forward, even though it's too dark to see anything outside the kitchen window. "Are you planning to reach out again?"

Her hands freeze on the top of the plate. "Is it so unreasonable that I might?"

Yes. "No, it's your decision." Just stop there. "But considering his track record, you may want to reconsider."

I can almost hear my parents groaning in disappointment.

Bella leans against the counter, her eyes searching mine. "Everything I know about his relationship with Alice has been filtered." Her tone is measured, almost uncharacteristically even.

"I can admit that, Edward. Can you?"

"Does it matter?" I argue, ignoring the instinct to stop before I'm ahead. "Maybe I don't know what happened in the beginning or the middle, but I was there at the end."

Her shoulders tense. "It's not that simple."

"Depends on where you're standing," I retort, shutting off the water and turning around.

Her eyebrows pinch together for a second before the mask slips into place. Recalculating. "He struggled to move on after the breakup. When she showed up, they hadn't talked in years."

I grit my teeth. "Then why didn't he turn her away? Don't you think it's curious that he chose to be there, to live with her-until he found out she was pregnant?"

"It wasn't his child." Bella points out, her voice insistent. "And she kept that from him for weeks. Even when he found out, he considered staying. But he wasn't ready."

"Then he should have told her that," I snap, allowing the restrained anger to finally leak through. "If he truly cared about her, then he would have tried. Instead, he chose to prioritize his feelings and book the first flight out of DC."

She rears back, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "So it's his fault that he stayed initially, and it's his fault that he left?

Her voice takes on an undeniable edge. "Why is Alice blameless in all this? Because she was pregnant?"

I cross my arms. "Don't make assumptions about something you don't understand, Bella."

Bella shoots me a look of disbelief. "Take your own advice, Edward."

Fuck. We're getting nowhere. A frustrated exhale leaves my chest as I struggle to find the right words. The ones that explain that I'm not trying to be a jealous dick. Alice's broken expression from two years ago resurfaces in my mind, along with the sound of her sobs over the phone after Jasper had left. The only time I've been more scared was when I drove Alice to the hospital while she was in labor.

"What if...he thought they'd be better off without him? What if...he thought the best option was to walk away?" Her voice is small and unsure, as if she wants to believe this but doesn't know if she can.

I slowly turn back to meet her questioning gaze. "Giving up is the most selfish option. It's only fair to the person who's giving up."

Bella flinches back as if struck, blinking rapidly to regain her composure. "Right." A small shrug. "I guess you've made up your mind."

"Yes," I answer, my tone clipped. "You can't always expect people to do what they say."

Her eyes flash with undisguised anger. "Don't lecture me, Edward. I know the world isn't all sunshine and rainbows."

"Prove it," I challenge.

Bella shakes her head, moving her hands in agitated circles. "You've cast Jasper as a villain in a story that's not even yours. Only two people know what really happened between Jasper and Alice, and neither of them are standing in this room."

She bites her bottom lip, deliberating. "Have you even asked Alice if she's seen Jasper since he's been back?"

The immediate defense that I prepared dies in my throat. No, I haven't.

She looks down briefly, balling her fist, before glancing back earnestly. "Jasper did hurt me. But I'm not going to blame him for everything that went wrong. When I say I accept some responsibility over what happened, I'm not asking you to disagree or prove that he's really the bad guy. I'm telling you that I've thought about this-probably too much-and accepted that we both screwed up by trying to make something out of nothing."

"So why are you trying to be friends with him?" Why try at all?

Something that looks like regret and resignation reaches her eyes. A small, sad smile stretches her lips. "Because even when I hated him, I missed him." Her shoulders drop. "We might not be whatever we were, and that's fine. We can be better, and I truly think that's as friends."

Bella swallows, shifting her weight onto the other foot. "Is that-can you accept that?"

It's at this point that I realize we've been alone for almost half an hour, only to be standing awkwardly across from each other, showing off our best statue imitations. Appropriate, but not great. None of this feels natural. None of this feels right.

"I accept that you've made a decision," I force out, my mind racing. "But I don't agree with it."

She nods resolutely. "Fair enough."

Talk to me. "I'm missing something, aren't I?" I guess quietly, watching her reaction closely. "He's closer to you than Rose or Emmett."

She winces, as if remembering something that was physically painful. I watch her fist clench and unclench. "He was there when I needed someone the most. I just didn't know it."

"But you won't tell me what that means." I state this like it's a fact.

"Not yet," Bella confirms, her expression pleading. "I've already given you so much, even if you don't realize it."

"I do, Bella," I insist, angling closer to her. "I just want more."

My chest tightens when her head drops down, processing and deliberating. At this distance, I can see the faint freckles that are clustered around the bridge of her nose. I can see the indents of her teeth temporarily imprinted on her bottom lip. I can see the tiny twitch of her left eyebrow, rhythmically broadcasting the uncertainty splashed across her features. She looks like a girl who doesn't want to ask for something because she might not get it.

So I wait. And I watch the previous girl disappear.

Because this is also the woman who kicked me after I stole her coffee. She suggested kickboxing for our second date and kicked my ass. She's a leading researcher in her field who's authored as many reports and publications as I have.

Taking a deep breath, Bella raises her determined gaze to mine. "I'm really good at pretending because that's what feels normal. That's easy. But this-" Her hands gesture wildly between us. "I don't know how to do this. So I overthink and overanalyze instead of talking to you, because I don't know if the words will mean what I say. But I want to try. Because I want this to be real."

And despite the previous conversation, despite all of the noise, I realize that's exactly what I want too.

"Come here," I request softly, finally closing the distance and folding her against my chest. She stiffens for a second before allowing each muscle to relax.

I brush my lips over her ear. "You can tell me anything. Anything. Maybe I'll ask you questions or just let it go. Maybe we'll argue or joke about it."

I feel her lean into me, the soft weight pressing against me. My fingers skim over her shoulder, eliciting a shiver.

"There isn't one way to make this work. But we have to try. That's what makes it real."

A long sigh hits my chest. "Are you sure we can't just have lots of great sex instead?"

I snort. "But men love to share their feelings. Almost as much as we love shopping and taking selfies."

"I sense resentment. Isn't it a bit too early for that? I haven't even yelled at you for accidentally calling me fat."

"I've seen Carlisle sleep on the couch enough times to avoid making that mistake."

Her sharp laugh echoes throughout the small room. Taking advantage of the temporary silence, I gently explain, "You don't have to tell me everything. That's part of dating-the getting to know you, the waiting."

My hands slide to her shoulders as I pull her back, meeting her gaze. "But if there's even a piece of you that wants something more than friendship with H-Jasper...that I won't wait for."

A soft smile plays around her lips, and she slides her hands onto mine. "You know those puzzles that are made up of a million little pieces? The ones that you have to use the picture on the box because otherwise, it's impossible to tell one piece apart from another?"

Actually, I was more of a Legos guy.

Her voice starts to hum with excitement. "At some point, you're convinced that one piece should fit with another, even though it doesn't. But you still jam it in there, hoping that the edges will magically adjust themselves on the sixteenth try."

She shoots me a meaningful glance. "It's only after the puzzle is mostly assembled that you can easily see where that piece actually fits."

I blink, trying to follow her logic. "Uh, am I the puzzle or the piece that doesn't fit? This metaphor is confusing."

Bella rolls her eyes, and grabs the front of my shirt. "You're the piece that solidifies that I don't want anything more with Jasper."

I eye her hopefully. "Does that mean you won't see or talk to him again?"

"Edward-"

"Alright, fine." I reach up to tap the end of her nose with my index finger, snickering when she scrunches her face in annoyance and backs away. "But I'm optimistic that my generous actions will be rewarded."

Bella fakes an annoyed sigh and pretends to get down on her knees, making both of us laugh.

"Soon," I promise, smirking when I see the familiar flush spreading to her cheeks.

A familiar buzz vibrates against my thigh, causing the mood to evaporate. "Fuck." I shoot her an apologetic glance. "I need to take this."

"Yeah, of course."

Dropping a kiss on her forehead, I push past the swinging door out to the dining room, checking to make sure no one is around.

My stomach tightens as I answer. "What is it?"

"The investigation is going to start next week," Caine barks without warning. "Call your lawyers."

I swallow. "Which committee?"

"House of Oversight and Government Reform. I forwarded you the list of members, but it's led by McClansky and Locke."

A familiar sense of dread crashes over me, and I steady myself with the chair. "This is going to be a fucking circus."

"It doesn't have to be." His tone is almost accusing, but not quite.

I scratch my cheek distractedly, staring at a loose thread from the tablecloth. "It's not the right time yet."

"It's getting closer," he unnecessarily points out.

"No shit," I mutter, grinding my teeth.

"Look, I know you don't want to be the bad guy, but at some point, you need to do what's right for you."

"It's not just about me."

"Cut the self-deriding bullshit, Ed," he interjects. "You can either get the numbers and use it to save your ass, or I'll be visiting you behind a cell in six months."

I shake my head. "It's not that simple, dickhead. I don't want to force her to do something that she doesn't want to do."

"Tanya is a fucking adult, who has information that could turn this whole thing on its head. Using her to save yourself isn't the best choice. It's the only choice." He's stating what I already know, albeit more harshly. If it were anyone else, I'd tell them to fuck off. But this is my best friend from childhood, and one of the few people I trust.

Still, convincing Tanya to turn in her own family? "I need more time."

I hear a loud noise in the background, most likely his fist slamming down on a hard surface.

"Have you been listening?" He exclaims. "You're going to get dragged up the Hill by the end of next week."

"She-" My hand reaches up to pull at my hair, and I breathe through the sharp sting of pain. "She has kids."

I hear him pause. "Any of them yours?"

"What? Fuck you, no. But if she turns in her dad, her husband, and the company? I mean, what does she have left?"

"A clean conscience?" He asks dryly.

My lips flatten into a line. "I'm not going to ruin any more lives if I can help it."

"Jesus. Alice said you've been moodier than usual, but I think this is worse than in high school."

I freeze. "You've been talking to her again?"

"Relax, bro. Just because we fucked that one time doesn't mean I'm still pining after her."

My shoulders relax, allowing myself to be momentarily distracted. "You took her home after prom and got a kiss on the cheek. And you don't need to work so hard to piss me off-these calls are enough."

"Feeling's mutual, asshole," he says curtly. "Look, I get that this feels like an impossible situation. Which is why you have to keep it simple-reach out to Tanya, get the evidence, turn it over to your lawyers, and walk away."

Steps 1, 2, 3, and 4. "Yeah, I think you're right." I rap my knuckles on the table twice, realizing it's been more than a few minutes. "Look, I have to go. Can't keep my date waiting."

"Is that your right hand or your left?"

"Go fuck your-" The sound of the door opening cuts me off, and I spin around to find Bella, no doubt having heard the last few seconds of my conversation.

I end the call and suck in through my teeth. "Any chance we can go back to the elevator?"

She grins and walks up to me. "I think we should call it. But what are you doing on Wednesday night?"

I peer down at her speculatively. "How honestly do you want me to answer?"

Her cheeks pinken. "I'm off at 7," she continues, smiling. "And that's the third date. So better make it count."

I step closer and cup the back of her neck. "You know I've stopped counting, right?" It's possible that I sound more certain than I feel.

She exhales shakily, her arms tentatively circling around my waist. "Yeah. Me too."

An alert on her phone interrupts the silence. Bella reluctantly pulls away, her mouth twisted into a frown. "My ride's here. Sorry-I wasn't sure how long you'd be on the phone."

The corner of my lips quirk up. "It's fine. I'll talk to you later."

Her expression softens. "Night," she breathes, before turning around.

I wait for the car to disappear before pulling out my phone again. Every argument we've had is about Jasper and Alice. Or Bella and Jasper. Or Edward and Alice. When it should be about us, trying to avoid stumbling at every step forward. There's too much uncertainty, too much confusion. Too many mistakes that seem easy to make and smart to avoid.

This just isn't one of them. And I don't need to make things more difficult right now.

"Hey," Alice answers with a whisper, a faint rustling in the background. "Sorry, Anna just fell asleep. What's up?"

My chest squeezes at the mention of Anna. "It's not important. Just wanted to see how you're doing."

She makes an incredulous sound. "At 10 o'clock on a Friday?"

"Sorry, it's late," I acknowledge, rubbing my eyes. "We can talk in the morning."

Her voice becomes concerned. "Edward-I'm awake, I swear. And you sound off. What is it?"

I collapse onto the loveseat in the living room, and drop my feet onto the ottoman. "Caine got back to me. Apparently, the investigation starts next week."

A door groans as it closes, before shutting with a soft thud. "Have you called the legal team?"

"Not yet."

Alice's voice is quietly cautious, like a compass trying to pinpoint my location. "You're not still thinking of turning yourself in, are you?"

"No," I answer tiredly, tilting my head back. My hand reaches up to pinch the bridge of my nose. "No, I know what I need to do. It's just an impossible situation."

"But you have a choice," she reminds me. "Even if it's not an ideal one."

I grunt in response, reaching for the pillow behind me and throwing it aside. "Speaking of less than ideal choices...have you heard from Jasper since you moved back?"

Sharp inhale. "Um, yes, actually." She clears her throat.

I try to keep my tone neutral and curious, even as my muscles tense. "Did he reach out to you?"

"No, I reached out to him," she clarifies. "And before you start your lecture, keep in mind that it's been two years."

Last time. You get to go over this one last time. I lower my voice and lean forward. "Yes, it has. But he still hurt you. He left you."

A heavy sigh rattles over the phone. "I hurt him too, you know," she replies sadly. "Possibly more."

A snort escapes before I can think to stop it. "Somehow I doubt that."

"You only know him as the guy who left, but he-he was there when he didn't have to be." She sounds even more tired now, like this is a story that she's told herself a million times. And it's not that we haven't talked about this before. But instead of automatically defending her, I consider the earlier conversation with Bella.

"So why was he?"

"What?"

I tighten my grip on the phone. "Why did you reach out to him two years ago?"

"I…" Her voice trails off, uncertain.

Because you didn't know what to do. Because you were abandoned and completely vulnerable.

But those aren't her answers. Those are mine.

"I used to believe it's because I was scared and confused and alone," Alice starts again. "But I think a part of me knew... that he wouldn't say no."

Suddenly, the metaphor about the puzzle pieces starts to make sense. "You knew he still had feelings for you."

"I knew it was a possibility," she acknowledges, regret spilling from every word. "A likely possibility."

For the first time, some of the anger that I'd reserved for Hale transforms into pity. I've always thought of Alice as a little sister, which is why it's never been weird between us, even after Anna was born.

I sit up straight, struggling to hold onto my perspective. "It shouldn't matter. You were vulnerable and needed someone, and he-"

"Edward, stop," Alice interrupts sharply, offering a glimpse of the lawyer commanding attention in the courtroom. "We're just running around in circles. I've always appreciated your concern, and I know it's coming from a good place. But this is not your fight. I shouldn't have reached out to him. I knew that then, and I regret that now. And I wish it was entirely because of my situation at the time-I wish I could tell you that things just happened. But they don't. Everything that happens is because of a choice that someone makes."

She exhales deeply. "You can't keep blaming him because he chose to leave and you chose to stay. Jasper isn't you, and that's not anyone's fault."

"No, it's not," I admit, rubbing my forehead. "But I just remember when you called-"

"I know," Alice says urgently, her voice thick. "I _know_. And I love you for what you did, especially when you didn't have to. But I'm not that scared girl anymore. I can't be. So maybe...maybe you have to let that girl go."

Is that what I've been doing? It made sense at the time to offer Alice a place to stay, and take care of her when she was pregnant. It made sense to hate Jasper for what he'd done. But does it make sense now?

I've been caught up in wondering whether Bella still has feelings for Jasper, or if Alice is still punishing herself for what happened, that I've been living in the past almost as much as they have.

If Alice can move on from everything that's happened, then what the hell was my excuse?

My voice softens. "So why reach out this time?"

"Because it was the right thing to do," she admits immediately. "We were such an important part of each other's lives that it seemed so pointless to keep ruminating over the past."

A defeated sigh escapes. "Being in love with someone is the best thing and the worst thing at the same time," she reflects. "Because eventually, you reach a point where you love someone so much that you hate them."

I picture her attempt a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know if it's harder to stop loving them or to stop hating them."

"So it's better to walk away," I guess.

"In this case, yes."

I fall back against the couch, silently considering. "Thank you." It's not about having all of the answers, but figuring out what the right questions are.

"Anytime." Her tone becomes business-like. "Now, about the investigation-did Caine say which committee is going to be involved?"

"Oversight and Government Reform." I pull up the website. "It's led by McClansky and Locke."

"McClansky," she states flatly, concern underlining the name. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I just looked him up now. Why? Do you know him?"

"Not personally," she continues, her voice strained. "But I know who does."

I freeze, my thumb hovering over the "Staff" link. "Don't tell me-"

A frustrated sigh echoes through the phone. "That's Jasper's boss. He's co-leading the investigation."

I swallow. Hard. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means that you're going to hear from him very soon."

* * *

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